The Bomb

The red wire or the blue wire?
Which cord shall cutters score?
The smallest fault would shake the bomb
Down to its very core.

Senses pause in heightened state,
And time seems slowly drawn.
So delicate in nature,
The bomb ticks steadily on.

At times, it seems so dormant,
Harmless and serene.
Other times you’d hold your breath
So to not stir the machine.

And when it blows, it annihilates,
Flattens and disintegrates.
Laying waste for miles around
To everything it hates.

So sensitive the bomb remains.
Would you risk a passing glance?
Knowing every second is
A deadly game of chance?

It is the worst of any kind,
If it were yours, you’d feel the same.
But one man’s burden be this bomb,
And “woman” be its name.