The sun’s rays set on her cerulean shoulders, the gloomy yet ironically peaceful contrast of hues touching to the traveler’s eye. He soaked in the way the breeze tickled her willow hair, and how her sloping arms so easily blended in with the rest of the world, her home. She had painted the sky in pink, white, blue, and a beautiful blazing orange, having mixed the ends of each hue so no one could spot one shade pick up where another had ended. She peppered the sky with numerous small milky fluffs, and the traveler could do nothing but soak in the mesmerizing art she had created for all to see.
However, he knew that not many adored her work anymore, nor did they acknowledge her scars; the trash people threw on her, the energy and life that was sucked right out of her—all were simple yet extremely harmful actions carelessly tossed upon her slowly weakening shoulders, their home. The traveler knew that she cared, and even with the scars she was given, she painted beautiful skies for him to see.