Wound tighter than a tin clockwork toy,
key unable to turn in either direction,
cheap Woolworth’s watch over wound,
abused, twisted one too many times,
suspended, neither gaining nor losing time.
Silence, stored tension and waiting,
for the final snap, everything released,
unraveling in a single glorious explosive moment,
something has got to give, and when it does,
I will have a front row seat to the show.