Battlefield Whereon I Lay

Now that I'm done, the battle's won,
None of my wounds are mending...
The inner ache grows.
I am, my tattered spirit's yearnings, sending
Out, ere last bits of feeling go.
Just before my Me is gone,
A tendril of strange thought is lending
Strength.  Into my soul, throughout, it flows

From living beings on some plane
Away, from me, far...
Whether heaven, or earth, or moon
Or star...
To make alive twas dead.
While here I lay, naught but not-ed knot
of tendril-ed thought
Could make alive twas dead
To undo foolish words said
To bind wounds by invisible, invincible thread.

A thread, a tendril of life most fragile,
Interwoven with my own most-gone,
From beings living far away
Sent to weave a tapestry of life alive again.
Can one lone strand, a single thread
Bring me back from where I lay?
This thread, strand, tendril,
All that holds me here to earth
From living beings, bidding me stay.

Battlefield Whereon I Lay...
Beings bidding me yet stay...
Naught but emptiness held today...
Where can I go?
To what may I stray?
When can I say
What I must, but can't, say?

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