The Bike

The bike has a deafening sound of a rattlesnake; from the bell.

The bike,is a paralysed soul patiently waiting for its return in the race.

The bike is a ancient ornament;now fungi and curled plants dominate its landscape.

Decaying in the sun while the grass grows;in isolation.

The bull handles are no longer pristine quality;only rust roams the handles.

The deflated tyres are incapable of use anymore.

Smeared,snapped chains have a desire of use again.

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