Sleeping Under The Moon

Let’s handcuff smiles to the moon drenched bed. It lingers temptations over our fossiled heads. The clouds have laughed a gas into our flaccid lungs. The years of wind they have gracefully sung, has now perished in a rotting son. The sown lips are now marching floods of inspiration in a bindered night. The howling stars are glaring onto a perfect murdered sight. The eyes are broken on the mountains face. We stand to such a tortured grace.