Old Weathered Pickup

A rust-eaten frame, a canvas of scars, A weathered old truck, a king of the bars. Its paint, once a gleam, now faded and worn, Like a story told, a lesson to be born. The tailgate hangs loose, a creak in its swing, A testament to loads it has borne and will bring. The tires are knobby, hardened with grit, From roads less traveled, a seasoned spirit. The engine, a rumble, a groan and a sigh, A symphony of power, reaching for the sky. Its windows are cracked, with stories untold, Of journeys taken, in sun and in cold. Inside, a worn seat, a leather embrace, The scent of old grease, in every space. A dashboard of dials, with needles that stray, Whispering secrets, from yesterday. This beat-up pickup, a soul in its steel, A faithful companion, a friend that's real. It carries the weight of life, with a hardy grace, A symbol of resilience, in time and in space.