The bike lived in the past,

But now that life is history,

Fingerprints lived in its heart,

Still engraved into the dust,

It slept beneath the old white birch,

Therefore living as it’s grave,

The seat was heartbroken remembering the days,

When firemen rid its springy leather cushion,

The gnome was laying on the headlight in front,

Never named nor taken home,

That spiders web hung from the body,

Wet droplets kneeled on the necklace ropes,

Dead bugs drooping dead on lace,

Rust enclosing on the sugar blankets,

That took them up to death,

Rubber floated off the wheels,

Like a snake seeking food,

The bike knew it was the last few seconds,

Until it’s eyes met the heavens.