Dark blood oozes out of the teacup
instead of the usual English Breakfast.
The master doesn’t know why.
He picks up the cup, blood
stains his skin, trying to dig into his flesh.
The master can’t find a reason
for the blood.
Why did he do before
knocking the cup?
He can’t remember. He can’t break
down the doors to his memory storage.
But the lady in the decaying gown stares down
at him from her portrait.
Knowing his guilt.
But he knows.
He knows why there’s blood.
The house isn’t the villain here.
He made it respond, projecting his hidden spirits onto it,
corrupting its insides.
The house is the victim here.
The house will bleed him out and we will celebrate.
The reign of his terror will end.
But you and I know that the innocent house will have to fall too.