Last of the Poems

So here is my last poem for the school year.  The assignment was to write dialogue in poetic form. 

Fallen Soldier

Will you stay with me until the end?
       I will stay, but there will be no end.
How can you be so sure when these trees
All around us have the life drained
From their broken limbs?
I can see the end and it's not far away.
Maybe it will be Elysium with its fields
Of gold, home to ancient heroes
Or Heaven with its soft beds where
The weary can rest their heads for a time.
I think either would be fine.
      I am sure it is Elysium that awaits
      Fallen soldiers whose only desire
      Is to forget the sound of thunder and fire.
Ah, yes, I can hear the breeze rustling through the wheat
Like the sound of the ocean heard from a distance.
I never thought anything could sound like
Home, but if home had sound it would be this.
       Tell me then, what do you see?
       What do you smell?
I smell bread baking in the oven
And a hint of spice like Christmas candles,
But I cannot see anything, not even your face.
       Then touch my face and see it with your hands.
       Remember my blues eyes and unshaved cheeks.
       Do you feel my stubble? My eyelashes? My nose?
Yes, I can feel it. But where is your hand?
I want your hand.
There. I felt alone for a moment—I know I felt
You, but I needed to know you felt me.
Please, squeeze my hand once more.
I like the pressure. I like knowing I'm still here.
       Where else would you be? Where would you go?
I don't know. Just not here.
       Feel me holding your hand? I am holding you here
       And I won't let go.

You may let go now.
      Why?
Because I can see the fields
Bending like waves in the wind. And the sun high
Above me in the sky. I can't feel the cold
Rocky ground anymore, only the warm breeze and soft
Pricks of the wheat on my hands. And the taste,
Oh how you should taste it, no more salt
And metal, it's sweet like fresh ice water.
      I wish I could see it, especially here among
      The broken trees and cracked rocks. I wish
      I could feel warmth on my skin and hear
      Soft breezes instead of lightening and earthquakes.
      I wish I could hold your hand to know I am
      The one not alone, but I can't. I can't
      Hear the velvety wind or taste the sweet water.
      I can't smell the bread through the smoke or
      Feel the pleasant wheat-pricks on my hand when all
      I have are cuts.
Then I shall save
You a spot where the river runs clear
And trees grow tall.
Is it strange
That I never felt more alive
Than here at the end?
      There is no end.