In the midst of the storm
he stopped,
paused,
wondered,
drank in realizations
wept,
then strode on.
The whirlwind
jarred his senses,
tore his soul
hammered his mind,
gnawed at his thoughts.
His mind froze,
his form quivered
he shrunk and shivered
with the ingratiating pain.
It won him over
He caught the plague
that palled him
and suffering that he was,
he succumbed to the distress.
Though his thoughts awakened
his chaotic self
refused to budge
pulling him back
bit by bit
wanting to swallow him
to drown him
into the fog,
into the fire,
into the pool of blunt ichor.