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The bike

The ageing bike rests against the silver birch tree.
Rusting and breaking like an ancient artifact.

       

The wheels sink into the mud,
Shouting for help in rusted squeaks
Waiting to be turned again.

 

The metal and its feel
Are shed like that of a snake’s skin.

 

The pedals dangled and unturned
Swing slowly as if an invisible child
was having the time of his life on them.

 

The ornament all alone
Waits for its owner to feel its stone

 

The bike lock is a winding river
Or a hungry snake patiently waiting for a meal

 

The torn leather saddle waits
To comfort who rides the bike

 

The handle bars protrude out
Like those of an angry bull ready to charge

 

 

 

Decrepit gears slowly whirr
Like the rhythm of a bee

The rusted chain spins steadily
Like that of a factory conveyor belt

 

The mudguard stays
Disappointed in itself                                                                                                                                  Covered in mud

 

The delicate spider web
Sways in the wind
Sparkling with dew

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