They are the Few

Cold skeletal hands,
Grope blindly at the sky,
Shiver at the wintry breath of the heavens.
Snow on the ground,
A stark blanket of inverse night,
Sucking sound from the air that surrounds,
A fallen king.
Silver fur
Tinted crimson by cruel human hands.
Screaming metal plowed through innocent thought;
A heated red blossom
Fertilized by:
Hatred,
Assumption,
Stereotype,
Myth.
Through silence rips the mournful cry of the few.
Haunted, cry of the few.
Those who know what has been taken.
The end is near for many,
But they are the few
Brought closer by ice-hearted man.
Seen by longing death-glazed eyes,
Glimpses of what the future holds
For ignorance ravaged lands.
They are the few.
The few walking a razor-edged existence.
Slip,
Tumble,
Fall,
Forever.
Because of many,
They are the few.