Round and round and round she goes,
circling the drain, circling the drain,
the art of perpetual motion embodied,
tantalizing the heart of slender glass,
shadow play through condensation,
the sign of recent loss and future thirst,
never stopping, never escaping,
circling, circling, circling.
When the glass is crushed
in desperation or in rage,
she flits to the next,
who cannot be drowned,
no matter the poison.
She is intoxication,
the wild eyes, the edge
of bliss and despair, dark paths
into mechanical sunlight,
the transformation of meaning
into temporal progression.
The damage that can never be paid for.
She is the illusion
before and after the fact,
burning her actual self away,
circling, circling, circling
into the void.