The bicycle,
Is aged and decayed.
Sitting against the withered, old oak tree.

The handlebars,
Stick out like an elephants tusks.
Old, but strong.

The wheels,
Can barely spin.
Moss covered rubber.

The pedals,
Spin back with the
Gentle breeze of the wind.

The bell,
Sits impatiently,
Waiting to be ticked once more.

The cogs,
Stiff and still,
Listening for even a sound.