Vineyard of Skeletons

Outside.
There is a place.
A boneyard.
Filled with the bones of my victims.
Their screams fill my head.
Night after night.
Their blood is on my hands.

They cry.
I show no mercy.
I have no pity for the sick and pathetic.
They are the wretched spawn of society.

Blood is everywhere.
They watch.
As the vultures eat them alive.
One by one.
They all die.
A slow and painful death.

I hang them up.
One after the other.
I feel no pain.
I feel no remorse.
They were asking for it dearly.

This is my vineyard.
My museum.
The skeleton room.