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The Bicycle
by Ethan Strathdee
Light flowed off the smooth metal curves.
Bound to a tree by the one it serves.
The bicycle leant, silent as the grave.
Unmoving as a worshipper in the nave.
Around it, rushed a moving town.
Inexorable as the river rushing down.
The bicycle stood, a rock in the stream.
The bicycle lay, flat on the ground.
Around it there was not a sound.
Crumbling buildings dripped mortar, liquefying with the years.
Gray rain washed down broken gutters, dripping through holes like tears.
Trees crowded, roots twisting and overlapping.
Dripping water drummed a mournful tapping.
A gleam of rusting metal blinked from underneath an oak.
A far distant bullfrog let loose an echoing croak.
Low-lying vines clung tight, a corpse's veil.
For the long-rusting bicycle, now at the end of its tale.