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Jul 2010
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 grippingΒ 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.Β 
A windowsill of white,
stained dark color from the waste.
A book so pure
polluted with distaste.
A book so destroyed
cannot be replaced.
Copyright Christopher Rossi, 2010
Written by
Christopher Rossi
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