Contest entry. The theme's pyromania.

I don't think much of this one, but I guess that's up to the judges. It's one of those poems that has nothing to do with me. So it doesn't feel quite real if you know what I mean.

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Flicker and fold;
Eyes wild amidst the red,
Euphoric 'round the gold.
It's the process he reads like poetry,
flow charts, words webbed,
sloppy arrows detailed in prose.
No rhymes, rhythm, requirements.
Just an angel chanting destruction,
the audience in rapture.

Flicker and fold;
Greenery to fuel,
heaps of leaves in the cold
Stockpiles come first.
No one'll miss them, he says,
and it's perfectly justified now.
Not fast enough, he says.
Flaming organic decay.
Towers to the sky.
Flaming debris like butterflies.
Stockpiles come first.

Flicker and fold;
The wood's too new,
the foundations, too old.
The building goes next.
No one'll miss it, he says,
and it's not so perfect but justified all the same.
Towers strike the boards and the boards follow suit;
yellow glow,
orange charms,
bleeding red.
The building goes next.

Flicker and fold;
the edges of a crimescene,
the carnage sharp and bold.
No one'll miss us, he says,
words choked and broken.
No one'll miss us, he says,
eyes drowning and open.
And it's not perfect,
And it's not justified,
and for the first time you want to ask if it's a crime,
and for the first time it's no adventure,
smoke down your throat,
his smile warped by the quiver.
Like peace,
like englightenment,
pulled and stretched and flickering enlightenment is what's left of him.
No one'll miss it, this, us,
he doesn't need to say.
Stockpiles come first
The building comes next
And you,

you come last.