Where Falls The Stain

Of this you can be sure: The blood is still there in the cracks, Do not doubt it, even though History may have faded to black and white And time appears to have passed this place by, With it's recreated trappings of an era. On the long sweltering afternoons The blood faintly fumes in the stuffy rooms Like it did one infamous afternoon; Rises like steam over the carpet, and floats A ghostly trail of vapor, under the bed, across the hall, Down the stairs Calling out for justice, for peace. The old blood just as ruby red With deaths trauma, Bright blood still screaming its igneous agony. And it waits Forever secreted under the the wood planks, The ancient rugs- It's throat slit first with violence, and then later subterfuge: The axe long disappeared from the scene Whether carried off in a cowhide bag, Or a woman's skirts. Still the blood abides Magnetized by the streaming rivulets of people Ever flowing between the walls capillaries. Later, only children the dared mention those days And only during the bright light of day, In their jump rope rhymes.