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A Midnight Lace obsidian roaring incantation applauds each grimace abysmally beside a silver-lined creek undulating among whispering winds carrying untold horror.

Passages among valley’s untouched slave — feeding the furnaces maws infernos gauntlet darkened malice clutched firmly texts bounded by Morgoth’s foot-soldiers.

Sounds of Rohirrim horns blow from —
— high Riddermark winds send signal.

Celembrimbor rests quietly against an unusual churning fountain illuminated by indigo-blue moonlight passing against dim-lit lantern light dancing through the dark streets.
Passing slowly to the
undying lands of Valinor;
A land of ageless education
— and meeting again
the scripts of Tengwar!

He who once forged sacred metals
sought after Two Trees -
— maker of the Silmarils;
as unspoken language stained armored soldiers crimson scarlet-red
like radiant, alive, and sacred wealth laid upon a weather-torn oaken table of years past.

The recipe lays alone with
trimmed recipes of Feanor,
son of Finwe, a High King of Noldor.

Inside the Necromancers shadowy prism
— aimed for merciless anguish.
Chains and instruments clash and roar,
Noldorian pinnacles adorned with rare jewels befallen conquering Middle-Earth.

Gold-peaked pinnacle’s watch point
glints after cirrus clouds quickly stirred
presenting the suns arrival to victory.
— Minutes become hours —
—decay , bloated, far-away eyes;
the aftermath inhaled the nights church Bell.
Yelling, making fools before us-
—yet, what matters most?
chained prisoners dying from lit pipe tobacco.

Leaving carcasses for Dunland Crebain,
circling, ravenous, and to descend upon fallen soldiers; eyes blank and glacial like a lost ghosts walking cobblestone alleyways.