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