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.

About this poem

A Tolkien-esque I wrote some while back influence by numerous chapters, essays, and Silmarillian influence

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Written on February 01, 2023

Submitted by christopherj.56633 on February 02, 2023

Modified on April 06, 2023

1:24 min read

Quick analysis:

Closest metre Iambic heptameter
Characters 2,241
Words 283
Stanzas 9
Stanza Lengths 1, 1, 2, 6, 5, 3, 4, 9, 2

Christopher McKay

Read, travel, write, avidly watch Anthony Bourdain, and routinely enjoy face skin care. more…

All Christopher McKay poems | Christopher McKay Books

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    "Untitled" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 17 Jun 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem/153628/untitled>.

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