He clings tightly to the sterling silver lighter encased in his fist,
eyes a g l o w with the image of the iridescent flames
reflecting upon his irides.

The city sleeps in flames before him
as they dance on the destitute streets like Gypsies -
nomads groovin' to Liszt and Rosenberg -
rummaging dark alleys for extant bodies.

The fire surrounds him like a cult, bowing their flickering forms
on behalf of his greatness, for he and his trusty lighter
composed them.

The flames engulf the city the way pain once engulfed his soul:
unmercifully, leisurely, like predatory beasts
preying on the flesh and bones of the damned.

He smiles right from ear to ear as satisfaction warms his heart,
for his target has finally been pinned by the
raging hands of torrid flames,
strangled with the ribbons of their smoky breaths.

"I didn't want to do it," he insists,
like a vindictive defendant standing trial against his tartar.

"But you made me. You made me."