Invent.

This is bedlam    
and here he is,    
ossifying,      
swigging      
from bottles of      
Chardonnay.    
     
She addresses his consumption      
with the same eyes      
she plagues the hoary    
and the      
disconsolate.    
     
The man's in a dank place,    
again.      
He is reticent.    
Those impassive, yet desperate thoughts      
stay close,      
linger and build    
and build    
and burst      
from the heart,      
from the chest.    
     
He is nothing.      
     
I suppose abject could be used    
as a term      
for    
his mind.    
Nothing survives    
except her voice    
when he opens      
the amaranth doors.    
     
He's breaking    
rather than falling in    
line.    
She's breaking in    
and the sickness hits her,    
bites at her lips    
until they're bleeding    
upon silly notes.    
     
He has the tissues and a left hand    
and the stress to reimburse    
those empty    
bottles,    
once filled with Chardonnay.