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The eruption of flames in the cop car illuminated the night. The shouts from thousands of people pillaging and fighting were a symphony of chaos that brought a calm to his soul like a mother’s lullaby.

Motionless, he stared into the flames waiting for something to happen that would make tonight a bit more special from the previous days of rioting. As windows shattered behind flames, he waited.

He watched as people rushed into stores and within minutes everything was gone. Others descended like vultures to fight the looters for claim of expensive handbags and clothes. The bangs from the tear gas launchers were deafening, sending smoking cylinders raining down like the wrath of God.

The old man scanned the area briefly, his fixation returning to the burning police car. He wiped his emerging tears back with a free hand. The flames seemed to be running out of time.

Maybe that’s why a young man became emboldened enough to jump onto the hood. He hopped nimbly onto the roof, phone in hand, recording himself in triumph. That’s probably also why he didn’t see the flames creeping up his pant leg until it was already half engulfed.

He screamed and thrashed his leg, never losing grip on his phone. It would be humorous if it wasn’t reality. As the flames grew and began to consume his shirt, the kid started spinning in circles on the roof, literally fanning the flames. Helping it to grow strong. Feeding the flames.

“The poetry of it all,” the old man said to no one in particular, raising his camera.