Storms are fickle.
Or maybe, it is just me.

Sometimes;
The thick covering of clouds is a blanket.
Soft and cosy
Projecting comfort and security
A hug from an old friend
Whom you love more than you thought you did.

But other times;
The blanket becomes stifling.
And the thick grey fingers reach down to smother you
And shake you inside an inescapable snowglobe
A labyrinth of grey.

Comfort and terror
Contradictory, but not overly offensive
When you consider that life itself is a paradox
Comfort and terror in a treacherous tangle
Like lovers
Friends
Those whom you trust –
All of them,
Treacherous.

Storms are fickle.
Or maybe,

We all are.