Flames taking life in the oven I'm beside.
My hands stained with ash. The agony didn't last.
You died a slow and painful death,
Muttured words under your breath.
What were they? Didn't you like your stay?
I did no harm until I beat you with your arm
I cut off with a dull steak knife
And sealed the wound, the blowtorch tickling
You will be missed like the other victims.
Ashes in the Urn.
Shadows on the wall from the stove
Dance in rhythm to the cries for help
(I block out all of them). The loudest
Shrieks came from my friends.
Divested of their human bodies, souls escape
Out through the chimney. As a self-proclaimed
Cremator, am I innocent or guilty?
On my mantle rest the trophies, each resplendent
In it's own way, each a story in itself.
I love my urns more than myself.
The tears accumulate when I think about my death.
There will be no ome to cremate me.
On the mantle I shall place an urn
With some of everyone's ashes for my sake.
When I burn someone it's like the
Joining together of both of our souls.
But they reach the urn and I, in turn,
Am left here to grow old.

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