Dead Poets Society

"O Captain! My Captain! Our fearful trip is done,

The ship has weathered 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 ribboned 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 nor will;
The ship is anchored safe and sound, its 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."

He read these lines over and over again, day after day. There was something magical about Walt Whitman that he could not give words to, something that gave him a celestial inspiration, something that reached into him and egged him on to write more and more.

He glanced at the scattered papers all around him.
‘Souvenirs’, he called them. 
Souvenirs that mocked him. 
Souvenirs that mirrored his erudite incompetence.

He thought about the recent novels that had been published. They all revolved around the same trash- technologically advanced world, about spies that belong to secret organizations, about children superheroes. He thought about the death of literature. He mourned for the world’s loss. He thought literature surely deserved a eulogy. He sat down to write one.

He wasn’t worthy enough to write it. He knew. But still he continued writing.

He wrote for hours, days, weeks. He never stopped.

He mourned though his words, he wept about the words that were no longer an inspiration to many, and he grieved about his cherished writers and poets. He kept writing.

But he ran out of words. He wasn’t tired. His pen still had ink.

But he had no words.

He laughed at the irony. A writer with no words.

It was rather funny.

He was grappled by a paroxysm of laughter. He chuckled and snickered. He howled and roared. He laughed like a maniac and tears began to flow.

In a fit of glee, he drove his pen deep into his wrist and watch the blood rush out like ink.

His hand jerked and he knocked over the ink pot. 

Red and blue merged together, giving rise to one of the most suitable metaphors.

Blood and ink, wasted.

All in the view that he had no words…