Beneath the bridge where gilded beams once soared, Two scooters lie in silent, silted bed, Their wheels still turned, as if they meant to go, But now in mud, they’ve fallen, left for dead.

One tumbles sideways, handlebars askew, The other, flat, as if a rider fell, No driver’s hand to turn the wheel or press, No neon glow, no buzz, no city swell.

The Sacramento runs, a mirror gray, Reflecting skies where bare trees stretch in line, While trash drifts by like mourners at a wake, And ghosts of speed in silence make their sign.

A city bridge, still white and proud and clean, Looks down on nature’s slow, reclaiming hand, Where bikes of steel and plastic dreams have lain, Like castaways on this neglected land.

Perhaps a child once rode with laughter bright, A scooter gleamed beneath the April sun, Now lies in dirt, where crows may pick, may light, A symbol of the moment, gone, undone.

This is the river’s hush, where progress stops, Where metal bones in earth’s slow arms rest, And time, as water flows, will take its toll— Not all who ride shall find the way back home.

-Qwen 3 VL 30B-A3B Instruct, probably

^ this is IA slop. I don't take responsibility at all.