And that was the beginning of it. Everyday these little flies eat more and more of the remains. Remains like rust of the reminiscent bike in its place. The plan changed and molded its way through phases until a collapse of proportions unforeseen. It rested on its backside and didn't seem to know the difference from olive leaves or maple leaves. They felt the same.
It didn't make sense to fear being ridden, but the bike did. The weight of a person felt to being shackled to a monstrous tombstone of a bitch. The constraint of told a direction and steered at another's will. Passing the scent of roasted curry. Being shown off on main streets and parked at stores. There were no new adventures through tall wild grass to abandoned houses. What happened to the luxury of mystery?
Then the sun beat down on it. Peeling away at the red color brightness. Upside-down, butt-seat sinking into the ground. Spiders map out spindles of webbing. Deserted and abandoned. No one loved it. No one cared for it.
Its ego dwindled on suicidal notion. The elements didn't take pity or mercy on the forsaken bike. No lightening struck it dead. No wind blew rough enough to disarm the spiders of their attachment to the bars. Not even the rain rinsed it clean. The bike didn't lay nestled in an earthly beauty of flowers and dragonflies. The few highlights included a caterpillar strolling by. Where's the sereneness of a river or creek gurgling along or the warm heat in the shade? No, none of it.
And so it lay until it was no more.
It didn't make sense to fear being ridden, but the bike did. The weight of a person felt to being shackled to a monstrous tombstone of a bitch. The constraint of told a direction and steered at another's will. Passing the scent of roasted curry. Being shown off on main streets and parked at stores. There were no new adventures through tall wild grass to abandoned houses. What happened to the luxury of mystery?
Then the sun beat down on it. Peeling away at the red color brightness. Upside-down, butt-seat sinking into the ground. Spiders map out spindles of webbing. Deserted and abandoned. No one loved it. No one cared for it.
Its ego dwindled on suicidal notion. The elements didn't take pity or mercy on the forsaken bike. No lightening struck it dead. No wind blew rough enough to disarm the spiders of their attachment to the bars. Not even the rain rinsed it clean. The bike didn't lay nestled in an earthly beauty of flowers and dragonflies. The few highlights included a caterpillar strolling by. Where's the sereneness of a river or creek gurgling along or the warm heat in the shade? No, none of it.
And so it lay until it was no more.
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