You, always you,
you perfect, glorious ones,
who make the starless skies shine joyous morning.
Oh you, who laugh and gaze and cry with wonder,
upon the miracles the ageless eye can't see.
.
You friends, whose casual talk holds back the nightmares,
whose laugh becomes a breath of tender spring,
whose tears awaken buried, ancient sorrow,
whose death invites the horrid raging storm.
Yours is the hand that keeps the precious balance,
that steadies him who's standing on the edge
the universe, a load on aching shoulders;
and if you leave, well then, he falls, uncaring
his wings of fire too old and far too broken.
.
And then another comes, treads lightly down below,
to gaze upon the face that's ever changing.
.
Oh, pity me
(I don't deserve your mercy),
offer me love
(I don't deserve such hope).
Offer me life, to mend hearts torn and broken
(my fault, I know, but please! - always my fault).
.
You help me stand.
You save me, I don't save you
(Though I'll try and try and fail too many times).
You wipe the sweat that stains the troubled brow.
You wipe the tears I've shed and still keep hidden.
You take in yours, so young and so unblemished,
my tired, cold and all-destroying hand.
You offer water for my ancient bloodied palm
(Your eyes unbearably forgiving).
.
You ask not for my name.
That's good, I couldn't tell you.
.
You offer soothing lies
(A good man? Sure, why not).
You offer hope
to a despairing, poor hope-bringer
(And you don't know it, for he hides all this too well).
You make him laugh and smile and yearn to travel.
.
Could I do that?
.
Dare I believe again, for you if not for me,
that in the stars, there, somewhere lies redemption?
.
Those stars I've known and watched a thousand times,
the uncaring light, for me, dull, ever- fading.
Oh, when you see, I see it. I ask for nothing else.
.
There! There it is, the youthful, priceless spark!
.
Come then. The bluest blue beckons,
the oldest fairy tale still living, ever changing.
And we will dance and sing and fight in every planet
(Ah, cross my hearts, you'll see them all, I promise),
we'll have good times, that 's what we always do,
and well, some bad, I guess, that's just what happens.
We jump and hide and crawl in deepest darkness.
We walk, we climb, we fly in glorious light.
.
And strangely, we are always running out of Time.
.
And always,
always
running.
.
Published this on my deviantart a while ago. Although particularly written with the 11th in mind, this poem could refer to 10 or 9 too; basically any post-Time War Doctor, because they all have this very fascinating, massive, terrifying guilt complex that manifests itself differently in every incarnation.
Not that the Classic Doctors were all fine and dandy. It could also be poor Five who was completely fucking destroyed after he lost Adric and also had those very depressing stories where everybody died. Seven, who had this whole Chessmaster- Magnificent Bastard persona, also felt regret near the end of his life, and need I mention poor, poor Eight who suffered horribly in half of the Audio Dramas, constantly lost his memory, lost half his companions and was literally destroyed by the Time War?
12 is cool all things considered, but dammit, he still needs someone.