Spacecraft (Code 1.1.6.3: No saleable parts)

To Seven, at first,

It was all just junk.

Nothing but metal

And dead bodies dumped.

The floor was all burned

When he climbed his way through,

Past ripped wires like vines,

Doors like cold welded tombs.

The whole place seemed to sigh,

The old hinges creaked,

And a groan shuddered through,

A death rattle, so to speak.

And the bodies on the floor

Held each other so close.

Cold hands, grasping hands,

Dressed in worn patched-up clothes.

A ring on one finger,

And a pocketed note

Said “Be careful. I love you.

Make sure you come home.”

Seven tried not to dwell

As he opened his chart,

Wrote “Code 1.1.6.3:

No saleable parts.”

It was, after all,

Just a pile of old scraps,

Not worthwhile, nothing good,

To send straight to the stacks.

He tried not to look back

As he wandered away,

To the next craft, all crumpled,

Laid out on the bay.