Amidst the Tempest.

My nights are black, as the imperviously shrouding monochrome of corvine plumage in the lusterless grey of winter, and yet my bosom burns, like an unbridled balefire in the wilderness. I am unsustained, by the effervescent warmth, of a counterpart and my suffering, my erudite rhetoric, of a suffering, reads quietly, to the embers of my desire. There is only dearthful forlornness for my portion, and yet, my heart does not dampen, nor do my solivagant strides recede, to the quells of abeyant disconsolation, where my blood runs, unrequited. I will admit, that at frightful intervals, the angst is insufferable, and my breaths are shallow, there is a storm adumbrating in these skies, and I have no nepenthes, to ward off its precocious assailment. Soon its force, wrecks my vessel asunder, as I am devoid of a haven, save for the fire which, burns in my breast. Indeed, on such times, I am reminded that, this is but a gift, the illuminating recourse of my purport, and in the prolific salvage of its sustenance, I am forevermore FOUND.