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.