Poetry of the Depraved (of something)

Full of wine

(of course the cheap kind)

and the idea of romance looming this time

feeling as though her thoughts were a crime

(this, of course, was all in her mind)

She sat,

with her head elsewhere

that distant place

with that lovely warm air

where she can forget that she needs to remember to care.

Not seeming to run

but never around

flitting and flailing against the bounds

don't get her wrong

there aren't any hounds

but where she needs quiet

she gets only sounds

Intimacy,

it is that which she searches

but when things stand still

she twists and she lurches.

And so she moves on

always in motion

if only she could get her hands on some potion

something that could make her feel

something she didn't have to pretend that was real

She goes back

in her head

keeping reality at bay

and each time she gets even longer to stay

She has conversations

that can last for hours

with ghosts

with regulars

she spends years having showers

She creates alternate worlds

and forgets what took place

deep within her conscious

she finds solace in space

And so there she goes

deeper and deeper

and the wine always getting

cheaper and cheaper

But alas,

this tale has no means to its ends

it continues on

with twists and bends

searching for the self

and failing thus far

but managing,

somehow,

to get back to the bar.