The Red Cross

It is a mountain of dried skulls and bones of the forgotten.
A man in a yellow fleece jacket stands watching without
Crying or blinking or breathing, hands jammed in dirty cargo pants.
A sickening sound protruded from the remains of a thousand
Voices, their sounds still prancing off the dark ravine walls.
The figure climbs the bones, splintering and smashing.
Screams release from those killed in random slaughter;
Or rather, in a slaughter completely mindful, firm, decided--
Aimed at promoting a vision of tomorrow free of fear and death
And filled with terror, empty windows and muffled cries.
Rainbows dipped in blood, an enchantment with pain, or the
Glory of the silenced pistol. The man in the yellow fleece gathers
A handful of bones, but then they disintegrate into ashes, and
Slowly drift away. He cries no tears; he hasn't done so since sixth grade.
The sun beat down on the heads of the revolutionaries with the yellow
Bandanas, so certain of the buzzing confusion in their minds;
Obsessed with the goal of a lifetime of significance, drenching their
Hands in the blood of mother-kin, and leaving only the bare minimum of
Human survival.
The man in the yellow fleece has dark brown eyes and a narrow mustache.
A vulture swoops through empty skies, but finds nothing to digest.
Perched on the grave of mass graves is a golden crown;
Its rubies and emeralds shine too brightly, as though its
Sovereign grace could rub away the wounds of a generation.
The only person to visit this mountain since it started is this
Morbid young explorer, a withdrawn observer, patient and unyielding
To the epic reality of a picture torn from its frame, and left
Fluttering in the breeze, empty of sound or color, but only a
Shred of what once was, and will soon be forgotten.
The man in the yellow fleece jacket takes out a camera, and then
Throws it away. This is no way to mourn the forgotten.
Cut the tape, its too long, we need to leave room for that footage--