Slowly,
so slowly,
we
have gone
mad....
you
and
I,
together.
As if evil
were some
bright
bandage,
I press
it to me,
staunching
the flow
of my sanity,
replacing
it
with dark
dreams
of familiar
terror.
Soon,
I know,
soon,
this horror
will be
bright
reality,
I,
the shadowed dream.
What
does this tiny
circlet,
shining so prettily
in the sun,
mean?
Nothing.
Everything.
Caught
between my love
and
my hate,
I will offer it
to
you.
Like my image
in
a muddied stream,
your eyes
stare back
into mine.
The sound
scratching
at your throat....
it is.....
laughter?
You
collection
of rag-wrapped bones,
and forgotten sin
dare
to laugh at
us?
Pity.
It was pity
that stayed
Bilbo's hand.
That
was
a hand
unmarred
by the beauty
of this wondrous
Evil.
I
Shall
pity you:
I
will
kill you
if you touch
It
again.
Somewhere,
in
a very small
space
of time,
a moment
of gladness
pushes
into my mind:
Gentle,
worry-stained eyes
reach into the blackness
within.
Oh, Sam,
I am glad
for once,
you do not
understand
your Master.
