Memory Fragments: Probity

On A White Cover, Stained By Words

And although I shall wish for my words to stay true to my soul
And although I shall forget all that I was back then, so I can remember tomorrow
I will be forever on a white cover. Remain in control, clean and without toll
I shall swallow all bullets, so my image is not stained by words from long ago

Pure and purple. Royal, regal and of the utmost care. The image I present
Solitude has found me after so long, now it remains by my side out of affection
But I have books and customers every day. Though I may not make a single cent
All is good as long as it remains so. All is good as longs as it stays out of projection

What colorful cover I have been gifted. Rainbow colors wash away the black pages inside
Not a single dot nor letter in white, almost like it is full of diversity and not stability
Each letter, each color; matching what may to form a single thread of an unending pride
When I put them all in order, colored-coded; It brings me back to that awful reality

What beautiful chaos I have found on this cover. Nature is pure when is controlled no more
Yet I am ugly when found in pieces. Broken and scattered throughout this library of dreams
I am of a white cover, I have said as much and pretended to since my times of yore
But recently, I am unnerved. Found bewitched and lost in these rainbow's schemes

I am happy, yet I am afraid. Of staining my image with colors so rich, that I might blind myself
What heart does palpite a different hue each beat? What soul does not find itself soon after?
I have searched and searched. From shelf to shelf, all I have ever seen is the same bookshelf
Although it is organized, it is homogeneous and devoid of the essence of its crafter

What to do with this book? Should I keep it to myself? Or throw it away like before?
In this grotesque past self, should I keep it around to know the differences between?
What if the little girl comes around and asks to read it from the bookstore?
Free as it is for her to indulge in my secrets, my life has not been quite so clean

From angry red, to envious green. Bathed in sorrowful blues and washed way be whites
In the eyes of a child, a marvelous rainbow. In mine: A pure soul stained by words
The cover of my life, white as it was, stained by others' lies. A focal point for all lights
Casting white on my life, blinding me and turning me black among the Mery birds

But a mockingbird I am no more. Intel and such remain in this library, but not like that
It is not for espionage nor killing with words, but for knowledge and prevention of chaos
This is my prison of atonement. A sanctuary and penitence for all I have ever spat
I record and record. Every word I said hurt. Every dream, a color stained by Hypnos' pathos

Sleep now, mockingbird. Sleep well and tight. For dreams alone is all that remains
I am trapped, yet I am not a prisoner of my own making. I am free within my book walls
Roaming free within the colors, I am on a white cover. Stained by word-chains
Picking what life to live as each color fades away. My memories never call from the halls

I twist and shout all I want, yet not an answer. I run and jump, yet not a sound
All is as it should be. Clean, calm, and collected. Like a library should be
I live my life for me, and not for books about me. I cannot be found
I am but on a white cover, stained by words. The cries of a heart I have yet to see