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.