Poems: what makes us think?

This is a poem I wrote on Ophelia, a character from Shakespeare's 'Hamlet'.

She sat, In her own bubble of thought,

Her bouquet of make-believe daises and reads clutched in her grasp.

The flowing cotton of her dress cascading over the wooden slats of the old bridge.

Lost in thought she wanders in her weary state, flat-footed in her midst.

The madness seizing her by the throat, choking the every likeness out of her former state.

She was once a beautiful creature, her hair falling down her back and her expression one of interest in the world.

Now she sits, muttering snatches of old rhymes,

no longer herself but a mumbling madwoman.

People whisper,

She doesn't mind.

after all, she is only one world away from where she wants to be...