Couched Tears
When I drape my fears on the chair,
The upholstery becomes tainted.
Scented with recrimination,
I do not foresee being sainted.
The upholstery becomes tainted.
Scented with recrimination,
I do not foresee being sainted.
. . .
POEMS FROM THE DEEEEEP END
C É S A R - M O N T E S A N O
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