Gettig Old
Broken
In pieces of lost
The bottle
Of old wine
In holds desire
You hold glasses
And filling only to lost
And lips in asking
But missing
The right tips
And eyes in mist
And asking the legs
What hand
Intends
And heart
In miss
Is holding in mute
with company of aliens
In owns of sickness
Getting old
Becoming less in cup
Of days and nights in time
Of age
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