The lonely, ancient bike,

was leaning on the dark oak tree.

The handle bars were drowned

in the wet moss,

like a fisherman’s net.

The buried wheels,

slowly going into the ground,

until they could not spin an longer.

It came to a holt,

like a bull stopping at the top of a cliff.

The rusty broken down car,

crushed in the compressor,

came out as a square.

The steering wheel was flattened,

like a pancake in a pan.

Every second it beeped

like a man angry at someone for taking forever.