Poetry

And so, with a strike of a key and a swing of the eyes, the storm was freed from its cage. 
  
I have felt its bone-chilling breath on my neck, 
and I experienced the torment of it's acid rain on my brittle skin, 
yet the despicable mindset of Sir Fuzi Fazi is exponentially more catastrophic. 
  
(He has allowed me to be burdened by the agile precision of the storm's sting, 
he has embedded me with a demon's jealousy and has imprisoned me in the chamber of self-despair, yet he remains in flawless perfection. 
  
His angelic aura shines through the dimmest, most obscure of caves, 
and his radiant eyes evanescence gray clouds in the sky. 
His impatient smile gives life to the day, 
and his immaculate walk makes way to the heavens, yet I remain in anonymity, even to myself.)  
  
And so the rain fell, and the thunder roared with the strength of a giant. 
And I fell silent to the claws of fear, and succumbed, in eternal slumber, to the perpetual monotonic dullness of nothingness.