The old, rusty Christmas present,

Leaning tiredly against a tree,

Waiting to be used,

By a once exited child.

As the dirty pedals spin,

time goes by,

The pedals rest,

waiting for owners to arrive.

The bikes once bright light barely shines,

In the darkness of the night,

Flicking on and off,

The darkness taking over the light.

As the deflated tyres turn sluggishly in the wind,

rocking the bike backwards and forward like a child being rocked in a cradle.

The impatient break watches,

Waiting to be used by its owner,

It sat there like a log,

Impatiently waiting.

The torn saddle sits strong,

Waiting to hold up its owners weight,

Doing everything it can,

To keep itself in place.