Russia Poem

Everything is strangely silent.
The harsh wind no longer howls, the people no longer protest in their angry voices.
The gunshots aren't sounding anymore.
He kneels in the deep snow, clutching the rifle to his chest.
Nothing disturbs the eerie calm, not even his absent breath.
It's exhilarating, the feel of his lungs burning and screaming, begging for relief.
Finally he exhales, breathing in the cold, bitter winter air that feels like knives down his throat
And the white-hot tears spill from his glassy violet eyes
Into the scarf wrapped around his throat, hiding his scars and his wounds.
He sits in the bleached snow, unmoving and staring at the crimson stains
That spread like a horrifying disease
And cover his achromatic world like bruises
He can still hear their furious protests, their death threats, their terrified screams
Shattering his cracked mind and splintering his broken spirit.
He can feel them clawing at his battered heart with their unrelenting talons
He knows all the bloodshed and tragedy and heartbreak he's endured over the centuries
But this time he's finally been destroyed.
The childish words leave his lips, torn apart by the silent wind.
"We don't want children who can't play nice, right?"