The Mind's Eye of the Beholder

 
I have special gifts, but I'm misunderstood
(It’s whispered I’m mad as a hatter).

That's because, when I choose, I'm a wisp of smoke;
A thin tendril of tenuous matter.

Sometimes, I'm a two dimensional plane,
Like a steam-rollered cat, only flatter.

I can be a glass sphere, full of poisonous gas,
Contemplating a reason to shatter,

Or a hot detonator on a hydrogen warhead
(Think lit cherry bomb—only fatter).

Today, I'm the link between monkey and man,
I don’t know if I’ll talk or I’ll chatter.

I just know that I’m special, very special, indeed,
Because when I show up—people scatter.