Surviving the last of the fight

Surviving the last of the fight

She sits inside a canvas of coffee, ready for a new age, a laughable repeat of the 60’s in a new and improved decade. She downed the last of her latte and let it calm and clean the Debris of her degrade.  Maybe she was stripped of her all, but she has a backbone so she ain’t going to crawl. It was the last she ever saw. It was a vision and a memory exchanged in a single glance held in ice cold eyes, but eventually you learn that’s just life. The only thing worth her while is to walk down a gravel sidewalk smell the hibiscus and forget everything held in the cheeks of her tight smile. She was never the one who wore plastic armor. She wasn’t going to let an identity crisis scar her and that’s how she went farther. For starters, how much of your canvas will you choose and harbor? She never cared for starving herself, she would rather live larger. She never gave a damn if her cloths fit the summer’s season. For all we know the core of the sun was ice cold and maybe she needed to stay warm. This is where the truth unfolds, no use in being sold and settling for a price you can currently afford. Her coffee brown eyes star straight forward, lost heavily in the sun’s light almond eyes. There was passion she was taught, which left her there to die and rot. Before, she fell asleep she asked god to make the remainder of her time something worthwhile. She felt a peace closed her eyes and for the first time since she was five, she forever fell asleep losing all conception of time.