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Dirt splashes down the side of the bottle,
a towering ring of soil rests around the base.
Years of sitting, collecting, years of building
muck, it's only instinct, only nature.
A crack extends from under the bottle,
like a medieval dragon from its cave.
Discoloration swallows all reflections cast,
deepening the mystery of its past.
The crest of the bottle curls in and gets thin,
like a snake positioning to strike.
A chipped piece finally wears down,
letting go and falling to the ground.
The bottle's wound sparkles in pain,
as the bottle rolls closer to losing the battle.
I grab it. I throw it away.
"It's suffered enough," I say.