Stained white

A little stain on white,

The alarm on conscience sounds.

At first, loud and startling.

Later, as the little stains come,

Over the years, silent and unfeeling.

A little stain, a little blotch,

Gently covering the white,

once, a plain goodly thing.

Now browning near the edges,

and no warning whatsoever,

till in nostalgia at my once innocence,

I remorsefully feel, at twenty and four 

how black-hearted I am.

And how it all started with the little stain,

I tried to dab with dirt water called lies.

Till I made a profession of it,,

In a half-truthful lie; one being psychic.

It holds sway on you,

Until it pops like the weightless bubble it is,

Then spreads thickly on my white.

On rare occasions like this day,

I think what black-hearted felon I am.

©aypoetry