An overblown and literal interrogation of an idiom

The dark pot glowered at me from the corner

It had no gaze to meet

It felt no remorse

So stared remorselessly

Its suface pitch

Onyx, ebon

Sable, Obsidian.

I hated it.

But more

I hated myself

For I could produce no argument

I admitted

It was right

The kettle, too, was black.