There is an open book upon the windowsill of my brain,
The rays singe a clarity across its blank pages
With a bonding so thick
So gripping on a memory unspoken of,
Undeniably ignored.
So clear and brown among the peace of paper,
a stain seeps through the creases of mistakes not erased. 
A windowsill of white,
stained dark color from the waste.
A book so pure
polluted with distaste.
A book so destroyed
cannot be replaced.