The constricting walls reflect nothing,
allow nothing, it's simply the dusty
depression of a room within
a house within a failed marriage,
barren of love or hope of continuing.
Only a break in the tilting blinds
allows a razor's shard of light through
to the suffocating heaviness of the
room, slanting across the floor
to the feet of the man in his chair,
clutching the near-empty bottle.
The man he is now, a diminished shell
devoid of dreams and plans,
of sexuality and a passion for life,
can only long to be the man he was.

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