Everyday.

The sherry tastes acrid,

immersed in its own volume,

savory lost in age,insipid,

like the dingy,dreary room.

She drinks there,everyday.

The blighted bottle,moist,

from the heat and now her grip,

dodders with her,before hoist.

She drinks to dissolve the heart-rip.

And lives there,everyday.

Her shouts reverberate,reiterate,

in the dungeon,like sherry,glide,

the walls of its bottle,drown.Fate,

chides her,her sorrows never abate.

She waits and cries there,everyday.

She clouts the bottle,the ruddy liquid,

wets the dungeon,and her wait.

And so she lies,in the blush,blotted.

Her sanguine liquid lost with her elate.

So she dies there,everyday.

Not anymore.