She turned off the mist
It seemed
In the morning hour
Of a Californian day
Where the beat of cars passing
Outweighs that of
the mechanical beauty industry
Where dry cracked swimwear
Rests on Los Angeles' golden sand
And where the sun has ran away
To somewhere a lot more sane
And less powerful

She had had enough
So she collected her last tax refund
And packed her case with paper bills and not much else
Called on an old favour
from an old friend
Who drove her away
To somewhere not far
But far enough

In Oakland
The streets were unknown
And she liked that idea
Dragging herself through the day
Without stopping to think
Or admire the views
she didn't care much for beauty
Not to mention love
And was happy enough to die alone  
Which she did
She left at seventy three
Buried in a plain black coffin
With no one to wish her goodbye
Or well done for starting a life alone
  Just herself
Under the Californian brown earth
Where the sun had begrudgingly returned