Clash

It's either a whisper of wind,
Or a gale from a storm.
A wired, desperate chase
To where reality is born.

The whisper is soft,
Like the promise of sunlight.
It sprinkles warmth and love,
And a hope almost too bright.

And then comes the gale.
A predator at my neck.
It squeezes with fervor,
And shoves the light below deck.

Tornadic spirals all abound.
Bloom and gloom collide.
Until the spinning stops,
I don't know where to side.