Water falls gently down the side of the bottle
Collecting in little pools of time locked in bulbous prison,
Forever reflecting the light around it.
The label tears slightly.
The worn hand grasps the vessel firmly.
Every ounce of energy is wasted.
The cold poison drips into the mouth,
Simultaneously freezing and lubricating
The words in his mind and the voice in his lips.
A small hand twists the handle.
The breeze wafts in as the Dream walks out.
The pools quake.
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