Sentimental,
the history of the world
is not as hidden as it seems,
our unseen wounds are
very visible, our lies
parade before us
like an obscene tuba,
or blasphemous tumour.
The shadows & charades
of loveless loving
as the world crumbles
with placated fumbles
of the supremely naïve,
to the point of perfect
innocence; & even
the decadant is wanton
for the loss of love.
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