To the eyes, to the moonlit part of earthen eyelids that winter shut, that night had hid beneath where bones are forming trails in the scattered dirt. Life above, pages below written in the earliest hour, laid in the latest light. A soldier's cross, a mother's woe, while faces, the same in glance to what left an entrance from arms to the limited land. Love keeps carving hearts inside the lightless land. Graves dug for what Heaven knows roams among tears for many years. Next page to a later life, torn from the book of promise to be more than the garden's end. Life, on a rope. Bullets, on a slope - raining upon the graves for secrets never saved. An eye misses a shell upon the war-torn shoreline, - a misfire for a place in Hell, standing frozen, all this time. We walk over to embrace our enemies on their weaker side. More comfort in the hold, in blood or arms that fold.