“Ash nazg durbatulûk, ash nazg gimbatul, Ash nazg
thrakatulûk agh burzum-ishi krimpatul.” -The One Ring Inscription
Smoking a cigarette, on these New York streets.
Watching the masses pass;
While all the stress is expelled and retreats,
These lyrics slowly amass.
Every time the heart feels defeated,
And all hope has been conceded;
The mind contemplates Frodo and the ring,
Such a small stature and such a tiny thing.
Yet, with the possession of the Golden Ring of Power;
Even the insignificant, threaten the eye in its tower.
Every time the mind focuses and creates a heartfelt rhyme,
The spirit feels as if it escapes the pursuit of the Nine.
Taking the heirloom of the poetic kinsmen, passed down,
The conscious sets out for Mount Doom – there it is bound.
Drifting along, in darkness and silence;
With little signs of bloodshed or violence…
{ { On September 23, 3018, he departed in the dead of night,
Travelling past Tom Bombadil and a barrow wright.
He arrived in the eve, at the village of Bree;
Feeling his spirit, becoming the ring`s devotee.
Resuming his quest, he moved and was pursued non-stop;
Until the night he made camp at a location called Weathertop.
It was there he received a deadly wound,
And felt his life flee as eyes swooned.
The impending death, however, would not prevail –
He was spared, thanks to Elrond of Rivendell;
Through the restorative powers of his spell,
The effects of the Morgul Blade – the elf would curtail.
After the council, he resumed his journey;
Which was a fortitude testing tourney.
In January, he entered the west gate of Moria,
Where the endless darkness consumed all euphoria.
His mystic companion fell, as they fled across the bridge;
He was overcome by sudden solace, his heart was a fridge.
Against the calamity which he was feeling –
Against the painful emotion – his character was steeling.
His company entered Lothlorien, his mind still reeling;
Possession of the trinket, he made attempts at concealing.
Lady Galadriel, however, would not be deceived;
Staring into her mirror, many things he perceived.
Though for his loss, he still grieved;
His pain, her words almost relieved.
Having proceeded, in February, from his company he strayed;
And at Parth Galen, by a friendly-faced foe, he was
betrayed.
The fellowship, he felt forced to forsake;
Although in his departure, he felt his heart break –
Only Sam, he could not lose or shake;
Together the course through Emyn Muil they`d take.
In that maze, they met Gollum, and he saw his own visage;
So many similarities, in that distorted, wretched image.
In March, Gollum guided their march across the Dead Marshes;
Frodo`s existence, now, unraveled by the adventure`s
harshness.
Broken, but committed, they pushed to Morannon – the impenetrable
gate;
And at the vile sight – the entrance to a land without light
– hiding, he cursed fate.
With a bit of blessed luck, the crew was brought to the window
of the sunset;
Where the hospitable graces of Faramir, would be hard for
them to forget.
Then again, he watched the same king he gave him a wound,
upon the Morgul Vale;
He grew pale with fear, but from his purpose, his feet would
not flee – nor derail.
Further along, in the depths of Shelob`s Lair,
There he understood true solitude and despair.
Still, hope remained – Wise Sam came to the rescue;
With bonds unchained – together they`d see the task through.
Escaping dark servants and orcs, they arrived at the foot of
Mount Doom;
And cast away their gear, while heading towards the
sweltering room.
But even in Sammath Naur, in that chamber of fire;
Frodo gave in – to the ring`s spell – power`s lust and
desire. } }
… Lady Galadriel`s voice rings in the ear,
The message sent, repeats perfectly clear:
“To bear a ring of power, is to be alone”
So the lips smile, and mouth attempts not to moan.
No matter how many friendly faces surround this mentality,
There always remains a loneliness which none seem to see.
They fail to understand how the heart can remain empty,
When (always) it is consumed by the One Ring of Poetry.
From its clutches, the mind is never free;
It circumscribes the spirit`s entirety – endlessly.
True pain felt when not writing,
No other stimulation is exciting.
The harder, the heart fights to disconnect;
The more life, feels incomplete and incorrect.
Whenever the sadness or depression, threatens to steal the
joy like a crook;
The hand places the powerful and precious ring on,
And the body disappears – and the conscious is gone –
Hidden, concealed, undercover, and existing only within the
pages of the notebook.
Composed By: A. D.
