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.