Cosmological Poems of Arda by AaronAzrael  

The Dance of Creation

Grief in glory, doom in might, hope at the end of the years.

“The world is indeed full of peril, and in it there are many dark places; but still there is much that is fair, and though in all lands love is now mingled with grief, it grows perhaps the greater.” - J.R.R.Tolkien

 

Burning with hatred's incentive,

his thoughts quite twisted with sins,

corrupted his allies, inventive

the only loyal one truly within.

 

A massacre of the unworthy,

where goodness guilty becomes;

yet unpretentious his curtsy

before the world's doomed homes.

 

His mantle covers all currents,

the might is still by honour touched,

the glory insidious is coherent

in terms of greater cause he clutched.

 

Thrice mighty the brutality,

annihilating slowly, it spreads,

in the blood triumphing this reality

where the unjust skin sheds.

 

Beyond the obvious, a premonition.

The remoteness with evil fumes,

the impenetrable sky's ignition

where smothery ashes consumes.

 

What hope is to find there?

There's some good in the air,

the evil device yet knows where

to attack weak rays that barely bear.

 

Yet in peace is there progress?

The mortals are grateful forever.

Eternity is always to bless,

even torture's absolute nether

pushes stagnation to progress.

 

Are we destined to appreciation?

Yes, dire circumstances thrive.

But today, doom's doom in patience

of the Evil Eye preparing to obliterate life.

 

Wrath and might are serious.

Hypocrisy is not the One deceit,

epic evil causes honour in imperious

resistance shielded by its opposite wit.

 

The Darkness of Fallen Might

still emits glory to defend,

and the black unmanifested fright

leaves beauty to properly ascend.

 

The narrowing of the Elohim

in forms is already delusion,

deceptive reactions within...

So the opponent in conclusion

 

whatever it draws from discord

shapes all conflicts in identities

that polishes the twist of wars

of one's own reason; or amenities

 

will push you to slumber of quietude

but indifference in ambrosia is born.

So Rise in Virtue, you, Challenged Magnitude,

of Victims that in Homage have sworn.

 

Oaths of Jealousy are always eager

to wipe out; seemingly fair, to protect.

But ... should Morgoth Imperishably trigger,

in the End you'd the Flame recollect.

 

The Void is the abundance of Causation.

Otherwise you'd spoil the Light.

And... should Feanor thank the Damnation?

For petty become all battles without Might.

 

Untouched is the epos of beauty.

Beauty of interactive shapes dear...

But... it shall be Middle Earth's duty.

Corruption to defend from the cheers

 

of simpletons' ignorance Leagueless.

So veil, you Morgoth, unleash your wrath,

there are signs of threats you can't Bless,

with your Device keep Rule of Arda's Path.

 

You shall observe other angle of corruption.

Without a Ray that refracted Creativity.

And after humiliation's end, the eruption

of local Volcanoes shall purify Captivity.

 

So for now, don't you ever disappear.

The core's infused with new beginnings...

But duality's coalesced in your dear

corridor of Life's Flower... and misgivings

 

are truly found in those clueless,

yet arrogantly convinced in partial visions...

But you... are true... save for your less

merciful verity that forged your Firm Decisions.

 

It's not fair, the end of the years.

But it needs to experience, or does it?

Truth resounds.. but an entity hears

cocky self-promotion. Well, dominance has its

 

way to remind you of your values.

Grotesque is widespread in nescient fools.

So let them mock... but the truce

persists, so do Feanor's lighted cursed jewels.

 

A core is a core, it decided to be tested.

Yet Life's absolutely impartial in immortality...

Yet... where spiders decide to nest

sometimes Light gets consumed in fatality.

 

Unbearable the losses you need to endure.

But we shall rejoice Melkor's saved heart.

And now... what's learnt turns to soilure

and Greater Eru's plan for the Start.

 

It spins, so Past is as relevant.

Present's inevitable in Experience...

So, Faith in the Future's effervescent,

yet Pain Unbearably trapped in its residence.

 

No, it's just a disgrace,

when a heart loses aesthetics.

Feanor's beauty's to embrace

and crimes are a matter of ethics.

 

Beauty, shine bright or dark.

It doesn't really matter now.

Don't get impressed by the mark

that bothers you and don't you bow

 

before something deviated

in ways that irritate without afflatus...

For what is all, we all created,

but your soul has it's own status.

 

And somewhat calm are the fortunate ones;

they have never been a hostage of Morgoth;

those who endured in bravery are young;

glorified eternally, heroes of Valor and Oath.

 

Let it be, it shall happen according

to God's plan, that Perfect indeed is.

But our responsibility is recording

our personal role, to complete His.

 

Have you had a laugh now, Melkor?

Now that you look back with newborn mildness.

No, despite it. It's embedded, your core.

Killing can express itself, you've sworn, no kindness.

 

Killing in ways that are provocative, different.

Why should status que bore you to death?

And this is how...

he went.

 

For the first time at desecration he wept.