Thanks to MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie for hosting this Friday’s music prompt, “That’s The Way It Is” by Celine Dion. I’m doing a form of poetry called Joseph’s Star with 1, 3, 5, 7, 7, 5, 3, 1, syllable count in each star. Please see Shadow Poetry for more information.
“Oh misty eye of the mountain below . . . ” words of the song that Tolkien wrote; the desolation of smog made the town burn, and fire reigned in the sky, a dragon’s evil. Or, maybe evil in real-life?
” Fire in the mountain . . . we see fire burning the trees . . . if we should die, then we’ll all die together and raise a glass of wine, for the last time.”I repeat these phrases in my head. I wonder if Tolkien thought about fire burning lives to pieces in reality.
You see in life their are many dragons, they put afire everything, the town is like the buildings we put in place to prop up our lives, to live in peace supported. But not even shelter can save us.
When those supports burn, where are we then, just fodder for smog and his smokey breath. Buildings are wood and wood goes to ash. Where’s that one little spot on the dragon we can hit, a missing scale, a little nick, bring down terror to his knees.
But in life our dragons are fiercer then smog. They are thin as vapour and kill us with smoke. We cannot see them but we know they are there, an evil dreaming the Devil’s nightmares. If we see them, God give us hope.
Does good overcome in real life too? Or do we die as dwarves, and Elvan folk do? Do we cry as a woodland creature over our loves? Do we go off to battle to forget our problems? Are we so surrounded and submerged by evil that we cannot see, daylight and peace in the morning breeze?
Do we offer jewels from the sky, to keep us alive? Promises to this and that if only we can keep on fighting; or do we raise that glass of wina and plan to fall today? No strength in us, though strength was what we found when we thought there was none.
Misty, eye? You look troubled. Do you know the threat in a mountain full of gold? The troubled breath of a mouth of fire? Rage and deception to keep all that’s gathered. Cursed bits of our souls, like cursed bits of gold. Coin upon crown, upon necklace, upon throne.
What keeps us together while our supports burn? When the coffers are empty, when we have no cheer? Do we sing lovely songs while we die by trial? Do we come to the aid of perfect strangers? Battle makes friends out of enemies. And dragons fall from their places of gold and emeralds.
They’re are dragons in Paris, a place I’ll see one day. Terrorism brings fire, makes the ancient town burn. One-hundred people fall in a concert venue and more across the city, people held hostage. A form of Smog, that vindictive evil kills the innocent.
In ‘The Hobbit’ many died, and Bilbo found out that even a Hobbit can do a lot, though he is small. But bodies lie dead where the armies have fought, no invisible ring to save you from a shot. The terror is real, he comes in so close. Not in stories but in real life. Terror from the sky, terror haunts us in real life.
There is this ugly hill that I peer out at whenever I look out my bedroom window. What tectonic activity put it there a millennia ago accidentally made this hill ghastly and abhorrent to my senses.
The mountains and hills that are farther away, now they are something to look at. Gigantic rocks jutting out of the earth, elephant grey, white drifts of snow, pine trees, and treacherous cliffs where mountain goats cling to. There, I am free.
I really don’t mind the hill itself. I don’t hate it because it’s located where it is or because it’s boring to look at. I hate it for what’s buried in the hill – – my husbands, numbers one, two, and three. Number four has it coming it’s only a matter of time. I look over at Charlie softly snoring away beside me on the bed. He’ll never see it before it’s too late.
That loathsome hill, I can’t face what’s buried there. Their voices rise up to me when I sleep, condemning me, a black widow. But how can I disagree with the truth, I can only hate the hill.