The Urn Collector

A broken mind
Ready to set things right
To set them alight
He loves the smell of burning flesh
So he stalks his prey
People he knows
Studying their movements
Preparing perfect conditions
To spring the trap of his true disgust
To make empty lives into
flickering works of art
And kiss their skin with the singe of fire
During the day he blends
A flawless chameleon
By night he pours the holy water
And kneels before his god of devastation
This holy conflagration
His soul burns with hatred
Their bodies burn with hatred
He circles targets in a ring of flames
Savoring the look of panic
Closing his eyes while
he takes in the screams
He inhales the vapors
And the evidence is reduced to ash
The inferno is a fitting death
And the urn a proper gravestone
His well-deserved prize
Bestowed unto him by the fire