Abandoned, that’s what I see.
Dropped where it was laid to rest.
Gathering dust, the seat a shadow of its former self.
So much like the state, I have come to
Old and of little use,
No longer functional.
In reality, I can feel the weeds and debris growing and gathering around me. As a friend once told me, “I can’t whistle anymore and nor can I run for the bus.”
What’s to become of me, I wonder as I once again struggle to get up from the lounge,
It’s so easy to just sit,
Stare and remember.
For that’s all life becomes, a series of memories, ones you hang onto
Afraid to let go for beyond them is the unthinkable.
Like my old bike, I too have been discarded,
Left to rust, I know it’s happening
As my bones creak and groan as I move,
All effort is met with resistance
But I know there’s no mileage in giving in,
So, I push myself up once again,
Step forward and boil the kettle
Hoping its where I last left it.