A kiss on the cheek, a knife in the back. A brother's last whisper before his attack. You won't see me coming, and might say it's unfair, but those who will wield me seldom do care.

I am a messenger to some, whose final day has come. I was a seer to others, to which death was no bother. A black storm on the sky, I observe life with my all-seeing eye. Many think I mean no good, by humanity, I am grossly misunderstood.

Course, medium, and fine; marking the passage of time; I wear, polish, and grind.

I'm known for my secrets, though I might not exist, The wealthy and mighty are often on my list. My title suggests light, but darkness I claim. What am I, a subject of rumor and fame?

Though hazy I may be, the weather isn’t me. Through story I may be told, and I am dear to the old.