The rusty bike leans up  a birch tree that has been stolen from nature.

The handle bars are like wolverines silver shiny sharp claws.

The wheels are a sphere spinning around the universe.

Spokes,

as silent as a suppresed sniper,

shooting his target.

Cogs click like a toy car wheel.

A craggy chain crying.

Pedals waiting to be pushed down by a foot, one lost time.

The saddle waits to be sat on one last time.

The rusty bike leans up  a birch tree that has been stolen from nature.