oh captain my captain

He died in my arms, his blood staining my flesh a bright red. And I could do nothing as he died, as I felt that last bit of his life go. He died and I could say nothing as he left me, could do nothing to help him, make him live. He died gurgling and choking, undignified and afraid and in pain. He died in secret, in the silence of a gunshot, in the ignorance of a liberated race.

He died in my arms with the press of a hundred thousand people around us, all alone in a crowd of millions. He died the day a planet was saved, the day a battle was fought, the day an empire fell. He died on the day that he should have lived, died but twenty paces from Zarkon's broken form, but five from Lotor in his chains. He died from some unkown assailant, some assassin in the crowd.

He died in my arms and I killed him. He died when he should have been saved, bleeding in silence amidst the sounds of celebration. He died in a world empty of all save him and myself, and I should have been able to keep him alive. He died because he wanted me to live.

He died in my arms and I shall never be able to forget the feel of his body as his spirit fled.

He died in my arms and I could never tell him what I should have.

He died in my arms and there was nothing I could do.

He died in my arms that day when everything should have lived.

He died.

And I did too.


"O Captain! My Captain"
By Walt Whitman

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done;
The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won;
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:

But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up--for you the flag is flung--for you the bugle trills;
For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths--for you the shores a-crowding;
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;

Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head;
It is some dream that on the deck
You've fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse or will;
The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, it's voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won:

Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.