Tag: Fantasy verse

Weathertop

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Upon the hill where winds eternal sigh,
The stones lie broken, yet they still recall
A tower’s flame that once embraced the sky,
A watchful eye that guarded Arnor’s hall.

Now shadows creep where ruin crowns the height,
And hobbits tremble in the fading glow.
The Ringwraiths come, with terror in the night,
Their voices cold, their blades as pale as snow.

Yet still the hill remembers ancient flame,
Though kingdoms fall, its silence holds the lore.
Amon Sûl endures, though none proclaim,
Its stones a hymn to power lost before.

So Weathertop remains, both dread and shrine—
A ruin vast, where past and present twine.

Merry and Pippin, Bound by Leaf and Song

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They leapt from hearth to war with jesting grace,
Two hobbits stitched in laughter, leaf, and lore.
From orchard games to battle’s harsh embrace,
They grew where friendship asked for something more.

Merry, the quiet flame with steady hand,
Who rode with kings and wept for honor’s cost.
Pippin, the spark who sang in shadowed land,
And found his voice where innocence was lost.

Together still, though paths at times diverged,
They bore the weight of worlds with mirth intact.
In Entish woods and towers darkly surged,
They stood, they stumbled, and they both came back.

So raise a glass to bonds no war could sever—
The fools who dared, and made the tale forever

Meriadoc at the Edge of Doom

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I was no knight, no hero forged in lore,
Just hobbit-small, with trembling blade in hand.
Yet in that hour, I could not turn from war—
She stood alone, and I must make my stand.

The Witch-king’s cry was ice and iron-bound,
A terror steeped in ages none could name.
But I struck low, and felt the curse unbound,
A spark that flared beneath her rising flame.

She was the storm, the fury, and the light—
I was the echo, brave because she led.
Yet in that clash, I found my soul’s true height,
And saw the dark undone by what we bled.

So let them sing of kings and battles won—
But I recall the moment we were one.

Rivendell

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Where rivers sing in Elvish tones,
and leaves seem to listen,
Rivendell rests like a thought
too beautiful to speak aloud.

Stone does not weigh here—
it flows, it lifts,
carved into arches that catch moonlight
like a blessing.

Time treads softly—
not absent,
but reverent.
History is not forgotten,
only cradled
in the hush of harpstrings and lore.

Elrond’s halls echo wisdom,
not command.
Even silence feels chosen,
not empty.

Here, burdens ease
without vanishing.
Here, the weary breathe,
and remember who they were
before the shadow.

Rivendell—
a place not untouched by sorrow,
but where sorrow is understood,
and met with song.

Emeldir the Bold

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She walked where fear had carved its bitter shade,
Yet in her step no trembling wane was found.
For war had razed, and ruin’s hand had laid
Its claim upon the ash-strewn, broken ground.

Yet she did not bow, nor yield to despair,
Her fire burned where shadows long had spread.
She led the lost through sorrow’s heavy air,
Where hope still flickered though the stars had fled.

For strength was hers—unyielding, fierce, and bright,
A blade unseen, yet sharper than the steel.
She bore her people through the dying light,
And shaped their fate with iron in her will.

No tale forgets the woman who stood tall—
Emeldir’s name shall never fade nor fall.

Yavanna’s Gift

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She walks where earth and growing roots entwine,
A whisper sung in leaves and golden grain.
Her fingers shape the bounty rich, divine,
Her breath bestows the bloom before the rain.

No war nor wrath can silence what she sows,
No greed can steal the life within her hand.
She bends where forest hums and river flows,
And wills the green to guard the weary land.

For trees remember, standing proud and vast,
And fruits will ripen, kissed by tender light.
Though time may carve its scars, though ages pass,
Her song remains—forever, full, and bright.

O gentle queen, O hand that feeds the sky,
Through all decay, your gift shall never die.

Elwing’s Flight

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She soared where ocean kissed the silver sky,
A jewel of starlit grace, both bright and fleet.
No chains could bind, no sorrow bid her sigh,
For in the tide, her heart and wings compete.

The weight of loss still lingers in her name,
A love once torn by war’s relentless hand.
Yet through the tempest, through the echoed flame,
She rose, she flew—beyond the breaking sand.

For fate would weave her story into stars,
No doom nor grief could strip her soul away.
She bore the light beyond the endless wars,
And in her flight, dawn stretched to touch the gray.

O lady bold, O wings that burned yet bright,
Elwing endures—a beacon in the night.

Melian’s Veil

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She walks where twilight bends to silver song,
A warden clad in echoes soft yet bright.
Her whispers shape the world where elves belong,
A vision spun from dreams and woven light.

Her touch could silence war, make sorrow yield,
Yet love she held, a mortal fate embraced.
No throne nor timeless halls could be her shield,
For passion bound her heart to fleeting grace.

She ruled in wisdom, fair beyond the sun,
A queen whose foresight wove the veil so vast.
Yet doom’s cruel hand, unseen, was never done,
And golden days soon faded into past.

But still her name is sung in haunting streams,
A guardian lost to love and mortal dreams.