He sits there slumped in the back of his chair,
so low the sympathetic eyes pass strait over him,
With a glass in his hand,
his toxin to kill the memories of the day,
the poison to destroy the feelings of yesterday,
the gentle sound of rain bouncing off of the window panes,
like the bombardment of hate shredding through his soul,
one by one the glass empties,
his body slumps lower and lower,
until his figure is absorbed by the chair he sits in,
absorbing him into the night,
freeing him from this world of cruelty and despair,
just when his fate is all but sealed,
his soul all but absorbed,
a saving grab drags him from his stupor,
that empty glass removed from his grasp,
slowly the rain begins to retreat from the relentless bombardment,
on them window panes,
all the strain lifted from his weary shoulders,
and he stand out of his chair once more.