Watched, the girl in the room
becomes specimen of strange forthcoming Doom.
She has firefly anguish, of having her light dimmed.
Propped into place, there is nothing to be fit or trimmed.
In the heat of unwanted conversation, her focus zooms into abyss,
returned only by a snap, fizz and hiss.
She drips of lethargy;
undone, by the crass pottage of city energy.
Taking to the bottle would be easy;
now she creeps alone in a cottage, breezy.
Once the city gossip, she retreats by the treeline.
Breathing unencumbered air – she is saved into time’s slow divine.