Prose poem with bikes

The old women were coming down, in flocks, from the sky, riding old rusty bikes. It was an awesome sight. It had just started getting dark and their massive descent was impressive as the joints of the their fingers were rattling and their white long hair was waving in the deep violet sky. They sneaked in every corner of the city and began to chaw its foundations. Chomp chomp , the city was shrinking and shrinking and losing its original size. My pavement could suddenly fit in my palm and their bikes were blooming like giant copper flowers. They had become a huge wave foam inside my chest till the morning came.

image: Tim Walker