Another wake and one more lake of consternation
I must cross,
at night I toss and turn as if the dreams I have are
sent to burn these images I see,
into my brain.
Another station and one more train,
lots of steam to burn again.
Every time I start to tire my imagination
catches fire.

I smoulder,
ignite,
and the older I become
I realise
I'm not the smoking gun but the bullet
in the chamber,
I am a danger to myself.