Misty Lackey Poet I do not know?

Tired Bones Cold To Mona Lisa

Tired bones cold
to Mona Lisa.
Poe flashed his eye to the
king dead like a shade
tree broken without flowers
or love loose from weather,
sweet like cherry wine.

Tongues rich blood curling
mars.
Long paper souls saved a bird's
wing.
What a cheap life.
Rusted fingers number the sun's
cure.

I wish I was soft like you.
I wouldn't have to be beautiful
or old, I could just feel sold 
cause your love is a deeper devotion 
to hold the silence from crying out loud.
Hands start haunting the dead, 
and a better mind is frigid beyond repair.
An insane dance ring's reaper's 
chance.

Heart's bent out of shape
and I cry the body starts
to get hard empty with no
feeling just remain still
and I will glass your desire.
Remain asleep on flower's
year.
The rose was near your grave 
but it was dead
because love was solid.

I finally kicked this man's pill
and recycled the empty tragic 
broken beds repaired with distance
and one record, sweet mama was born
to fly,
around your neck lust 
sheets sweeping respect.

Whiskey mind nowhere
but naked between the sky
and wind playing for success
don't sin.
Stay don't cheat.
Sleep again and path
your road the right angel
will call you.

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