New Ground in Latin

Pathways lead to stones framed on the lawns of the midnight.
Coming up from the state lines, and we are sick with the bent out shapes of the lives we lead.
Crows dance, and our hopes, and relief dance across the fences, and power lines that ended miles ago.
Gave up finding what made us prove ourselves in repetition; no trust, too late.
Glass signals our half mooned smiles in distance where dust houses, and our souls warm by endless fires in the aesthetic we are safe.
Headstones line the gates, and we sink deep into the walk of life from dust, and trails to open skies that illuminate the scape of hilltops desolate.
Calm are the quakes, as the tender frames of walls call us out of the grave, and into caves of mistrals where our names aren't whispered, but our dreams are elevated to the place of deserving poor. As the slow descent carries them to shores, and afterlives in which we cannot live, as they love to leave where no one knows us.
Gales of nights chuckle against our ribs, pumpkins carved up to the nines laugh out in our distress as we slowly press into the outside looking in. As we fall from nose to tail into the lofty ends we hoped to meet out here we breathe in for luck and grow colder by the hour, and forget our names ever after.