by Emmit Other
I must wonder
In the bowels of my most precurious mind
On a subject most likely consider strange
Insignificant at best
But ponder if you will
In the fictional realm
That strange pattern of hairy feet
The rolling hills of the shire
Of dwarven mead
And spider's web
And mithril's echoed hall
An afterlife is at best implied
If not outright engaged
I have not read the Silmarillion
But I know this
Power leaves Echoes
Else why not the buried Balrog
Deep in the earth
And whence then the One Ring
And its Bearer?
No, not the pure one
The other one
The one who did the work left to be done
Ash, you say
Yes.
I do not disagree.
Melted?
Goo?
The power of the ring destroyed
Yes.
Yes it is.
Sauron's power ended.
Dead is dead.
His shadow broken.
But is spirit eternal?
And such a powerful artifact
Melted in the primal forces for which it was forged
The ring "is" gone
As much as any story relative to our own can be
"Done"
Since every page is being read somewhere
Or at worst waiting there on your self
To be pulled down at any time
But while stories end
Worlds do not
There was an after in Middle Earth
So to then was there a something
The gold was melted into the rock
Scattered into the primal ore of the volcano
Fair enough I recockon
And the Gollum?
Is it dead?
Is it merely sleeping a well deserved
Murdering rest?
Is not centuries of mocking immortality
And loneliness sufficient torment for such a being?
But really
What happened?
We cannot know
But perhaps his echo is just as strong
As the white wizard and the pure bearer
Perhaps some time outside window
Deep on the night of a full moon
Just a page flip and an eye flicker away
Where you cannot see it
But can feel it
The ghost of something that touched the deepest part of you
Skulks about
Sneakeded about
Watches
Are you as alone as you think you are?
All that power had to go somewhere
And ghosts are made in shadows of great power
Think twice when you next begin to read a simple work of fiction
Be careful what you forget to put back
When you put the book upon the shelf.
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