Sta.sh
He was a tall man, says the length between his footprints
in the mud and sand in the tunnels beneath the house.
A clumsy man too, says the pile of broken glass
in the corner from a lantern accidentally dropped
when he ran for his life from nightmares untold; a smart, witty young man,
say the papers scribbled with notes
on the desk in the darkened room, lit only by oil lamps and candles.
Not a man for hiding though, says the overturned chair in the corner,
and desk drawers yanked from their holes and strewn across the floor.
He was on a mission, says the blood pools trailing the paths,
bits of flesh from once living beings bob disgustingly in the scarlet puddles
on top of cracked cobble stones; he had no weapons,
say the shattered bottles and hammer and pipe, used in a battle probably lost.
Time was running out, says the locks on their doors hastily opened
in desperate attempts to get away from it all, to seal it in the past.
And the images terrifying, say the prints in the dirt of struggles to get away.
It was different there, says the huge looming house.
Something went wrong, says the darkened house
with the boarded up windows. Blood on the paths
say something died; the broken locks on the doors
whistle as wind blows through the key holes
say he tried to get away as fast as he could.
And the victims? Their bodies are tossed throughout the house
like a child's playthings when he goes in for his nap -- a severed arm,
a bloody leg, laying at an odd angle,
a man in chains. Something went wrong, they say.
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"How appropriate, you fight like a cow!" --Guybrush Threepwood, mighty pirate 
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Maybe it's just because I see it everyday...?
