The bike rests,
Against the old withered oak tree,
Slowly rusting away.

The wheels still,
Praying to move once more,
Like a child,
Waiting for something that will never happen.

The handles jutting out like shark’s fins,
Waiting to be gripped by the warm welcoming hands of its owner,
Knowing that because of your rust people will hesitate to touch you.

The saddle cold and full of holes,
So rusty that it is in danger of falling off,
Knowing that if that happens no one will care,
Not even the owner who has abandoned you leaning against the old withered oak tree.

The flowers on the bike moan in rhythm to the wind,
Pleading to be back in the wild once more,
To be seen as pretty things,
Not seen with this rusty old bike.

The bell waiting to be rung a few times more,
Looking out for its owner to come back and ring with the bell again,
Missing the sight of people running out the way as it makes it’s loud screeching noise…
…if only it had known it was for the last time.