Indecisive Illness

Shadowy, aching, and hole-ridden,
my digestive titanic gall.
Silver bullet and wooden stake lodged
deep and hard, They itch me crazy.
Speak of forked tongues with two
faces you can’t move fast enough.
Reconciling enough mysteries to know
it was probably the butler.
He is nowhere to be found.
You begin to wonder where he is.
Do you even have a butler?
You think you probably do,
but he’s conveniently not around to accuse.

Time for a new butler.