Art, Pen

Astute

Every morning,
I wash and clean the glass,
And fill it carefully
With some old wine.

Throughout the day,
I try to hold it still,
But As I walk and run,
I spill it here and there.

By the night,
I am left with little.
I stare at it,
Swallowing my own spit,
I pour it back into
The same old bottle,
With a little lesser wine in it.

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