.

Alone, but not empty.

. Full of stories; but no one to tell.

Will you listen?

. The day I was born, I dint know my death.

.

From a small factory somewhere, they brought me up here. With panting engines I came; They changed my black rubber shoes often. For many years I roamed, these brown rocky mountains. The terrain was unfriendly; I had no company but for the two hands that held me.

.

One fine day, we left, the usual path, with many turns. But today, something unusual; His hands were unsure. The usual turns rockier, The brakes more sudden;

One sharp turn too sharp, He faltered, and I part. He died instantly, Those warm familiar hands gripped me one last time.

. I wore away slowly, Donated whatever organ they saw fit.

And today I stand here, Alone, a shell.

. But, Not empty, not a waste, Nice stories to passers I Tell.