Frodo's Journal

- jan-u-wine

In another life,
I kept a journal
of wander'd memories,
a journal,
hidden and safe within a night-velvet pocket.
Coins lived merrily there,
coins whose voices
sang of silver-spun eventides
pleasant with drift'd pipe-weed,
a belly sweetly full,
a star-sewn path
which even my ale-tricked feet
ended in Home.
I have no journal now,

my own stumbling thoughts.
I can see them,
broken gilt
bits of myself
falling to silence
this darkening Sun.
Soon they will all have gone,
like the journal
the small music of the coins.
Before that,
the last strength and will
leave me,
I must stand
within the reddened mouth
of the chamber.
And what then?
Sprayed-hot blood and death-sounds
are my answer.
Both are mine,
sound and sight
until, like a cry-spent child,
I see only my own emptied hand,
fingerbone’s pale flower glistening
below a bright  blossom of blood.
There is no breath left me.
I want.
I want
Even now.  
Beneath the jagged beat of my heart,
(or might that be Its voice,  precious indeed, touching me,
promising me,
 running hot through my veins,  torment turned to pained pleasure......)
I am shamed.
Naught but a moment this shame,
nothing more than an exhaled "no", my hesitance beneath its heel,
but the World turns upon it,
redemption and loss
wound about by mad-voiced laughter,
the echo
of descending cries.     
It is gone.

It is done.

Oddly, in this moment,
(rock’s broken fingers holding me as if it they were the softest pillow,  
final threads of life

benethe the mountain’s end)
I think upon my innocent,
green-jacketed journal,
lost somewhere between
back again,
parchment burdened
by nothing more weighty
where Eärendil might have been
on Mid-summer a year-since,
or how many pints I stood the Gaffer to
upon the occasion of his birthday.

If it were but with me now,
what might I write,

as all things end?

that I am glad,

if it might mean the saving of that which again

like a time-hazed dreme
before my  eyes. 

Of course,
if its scarred face were to hand,

I should say my farewell to Bilbo.

I pray he will not be disappointed
that somehow I did not manage

to write it all down.

It was…..
not at all like his journey.

There is even yet a smile left me,
as in imagination I trace the letters of my name
beneath my good-bye, and the date:

25 Rethe, 1419, S.R.

Quiet, now,


in this dying place,
a watchful peace filling the corners of swift-failing thoughts.

It is good to lie still,

without fear.

It is good to close my eyes to that which approaches,
good to dreme upon green hills and golden harvests,

silver stars and Spring-blue skies.

And so I do,
the dremes enfolding me,

sounding in my ears like the swift wings of Eagles.

Like Eagles.

Now, truly, I may sleep. 


A/N:  of course, 25 Rethe is the date that we refer to as March 25, the day which marked the destruction of the Ring.