Tapered to they sky's ceiling as always, a dull white with grey fades. Mr. Moon came out tonight, but the clouds looked like they had a rough day trying to hold on, wind danced her melancholy tunes through the mango tree branches, if you listened hard enough, you could catch their lyrics, or their giggles. It depends really.
Nails bitten to stubs and cracked skin, unaligned brows, betel nut stained teeth, old enough to render a slight whif of decay, her messy mop of an affro frizzied outward, pumpkin smeared on what appeared to be a new top, no bra underneath, belly hanging, clear signs of recent childbirth. Facial moist combined with swest and odour. She had on a trousers that must've been torn but sewn to cover and hold dignity. Her eyes seem to say "Jesus take the wheel"
©lisathea
L