My Timer

A Poem by Ah Lecks

In times of extreme stress, a mind may run short a fuse

Summer nights, I sit alone.
I sit upon the white leather,
maybe the dark wood.
Maybe the sea of springs,
in which I call my bed.
No action.
No interaction.
Nothing moves,
other than what's in my mind.
I'll sit tight, sure.
I'll constantly sit with my smile.
Gaps staring back.
My gaze meets no structure,
meets no creature, no being.

I am the bomb.
Perhaps, the most...
Powerful.
Dangerous.
Strange.

I am without a timer.
I am without a trigger.
I am without a button,
or without a wick.

The actions and phrases,
all are converted into...
... what is another language.
Its own culture.
And their belief is to gather.
Gather into the very pits of my mind.

And that is my timer.
That is my trigger.
That is my button.
My Wick.

Waiting to go.
Blow.
Explode.
And splatter all the remains.

On paper.