Where Falls The Stain Poem by Patti Masterman

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.