When heart warming thoughts leave behind lukewarm blood,
to walk home through the veins alone.
And how the soldiers kept warm, by cupping bullets like mud,
In their palms surrounded by bone.
Bullets that aimed, but landed in snow,
on the nights that the winter kissed.
Taunting and haunting that lead that was so,
surrounded by flesh that it missed.
Hugged by failure, tucked with regret,
the ammo most certainly would cry.
Wishing and hoping with its dense metal heart,
that he could have felt a grown man die.

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