A poem I found and want to share
A Lament for the Unsung Dead
by Jane Peyton
I pace the floor
And worry my nails
And try to keep myself
From going to him.
I can see him from here,
As I look through the door.
He sits at my desk,
his proud Vulcan head cradled in his arms.
He’s been sleeping for hours,
for the first time in days,
While I pace the anteroom
And somehow give him the peace he needs.
It’s seemed like years
Since the Captain called from the planet
and Spock went racing to his aid.
The transporter was still out,
We had to use the shuttle,
Spock berating himself all the way
for not having gone down sooner
Despite the Captain’s orders.
Once below,
We fought our way
through the enemy lines,
Spock spearheading our progress,
swinging the broadsword necessitated by regulations.
Technically, I suppose
our rescue party shouldn’t even have been there.
But Spock was beyond caring,
as were we all.
By the time we entered the stronghold,
the Captain had lapsed into unconsciousness.
And shortly thereafter,
while Spock defended the entrance alone,
The Captain passed away
despite all that we could do.
Spock’s fighting increased in ferocity,
But otherwise he seemed unmoved.
The Doctor smashed his medical kit
against the wall.
And then picked up the Captain’s sword
and took his place next to Spock.
The Vulcan pushed him aside
And fought alone
Until the transporter was repaired.
Was Spock’s reaction due to upset?
Anger?
I don’t know.
The Doctor’s fencing is frightfully inept.
That was all a month ago.
At first, Spock had reacted to the captain’s death
In typically Vulcan manner:
He seemed completely unmoved.
But after the family funeral
where he did not fit in,
And after the medal
Which he would not accept,
He grew increasingly lost.
It was not obvious,
but I noticed.
His promotion came a week ago
But he hasn’t yet changed the braid on his cuffs.
And today I opened my door
and there he stood.
He asked permission to see me,
and wordlessly, in confusion
I let him in.
His stride was hesitant;
he still carries a limp from the battle;
Although his manner is as always.
Formally, he inquired as to whether
I had ever lost a friend,
An important friend,
And if so, what did I do?
He was reaching out
For an undefinable something,
But in his own way,
And for the first time.
Carefully, I told him
“I have lost friends beefore,
some of them very dear to me,
But the emptiness passes.
It becomes filled with life,
And living,
And with other people.”
“But when there are no others,” he replied,
and started to leave.
I couldn’t let him turn away like that,
I persuaded him to stay and talk,
But he was silent for a long time,
and when he spoke,
It was to apologize for coming.
I convinced him not to leave,
and since his meals had become progressively neglected,
I asked him to wait
while I went to get some lunch,
And when I returned,
he was asleep.
Why did he come to me?
I have no illusions;
he does not love me,
I doubt he can ever love anyone,
but friendship can touch him.
Am I perhaps considered a friend?
I hope not.
I hope he does not count on me
to make him what he isn’t.
He is a man who must walk alone.
And even the love I would give him
isn’t worth a thing,
Not to him
or me,
Because it isn’t ours,
only mine.
I fear the glimmer of humanity inside him
will shrivel and die,
But I can do nothing,
Not to help
or hurt him,
And because of the stoicism he taught me,
unintentionally,
I can’t even cry for him.