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.