The lonely Bicycle.

The decayed bike lay against the thinnest birch tree in the land.

Rusted Handle bars stretch from the headlights, waiting to be held one last time.

The forgotten bike is buried deep in the spring grass.

The mud covering the bike embraces it like a pitch-black storm cloud, ready to release it’s rage

The battered headlight gleams in the sunlight, waiting to shine, for the last time.

The worn pedals dangle from their rusty supports.