The bike.

The bike remains resting

Hoping to be used.

The moss spreads across the frame.

Formed like ivy trailing up the bike

The wheels stuck with moss.

The pedals, 

Aged with rust 

Sitting there untouched.

The cogs decay, 

With sorrow 

Not being spun for centuries.

The bell,

Hopes it will be rung 

One cold day.

The tires,

Are as flat as a a pancake 

Trying really hard to move.