Touch of Doom
Even as he sought to hold it,
His fate was surely sealed.
He reached for his life, but only Death took his hand,
In a grip that he had not the strength to break.
Gollum makes his final move and is cursed by the very thing he desires.
The word "doom" is one of those odd things in the English language that has such a dark and fateful meaning but sounds a bit silly. I immediately think of cartoonish The End is Nigh type monks waving wooden signs and chanting "Dooom! Doooooooom!" which makes it difficult to use in serious poetry. I finally chose to use it here because Tolkien chose it specifically and used it specifically and nothing else really quite works. Was it fate or a bane? No, not quite...it really was doom.
Touch of Doom
"Begone, and trouble me no more! If you touch me ever again, you shall be cast yourself into the Fire of Doom."- Return of the King
Upon the ashen mountain, laying in the dust,
With tortured eyes that burned, devoured
Filled with blackest hate,
Fear and insatiable desire warred -
Gollum knew the power of the Ring;
Yes, he knew it all too well and deep.
It's Power unveiled before his jealous hatred;
A wheel of fire, a voice of thunder,
A demand of obedience,
A curse should he fail.
Frodo wielded the weapon of despair,
The Bearer commanded the power of its burning.
And the Ring would work his will,
For it was made such as this -
And Gollum knew it as he groveled. He knew.
Once he had borne its sweet searing presence,
He remembered its weight upon his bony hand.
But he feared the Master who now directed its forces,
The sureness of its Power -
Meaning and truth to be sworn upon,
The one certainty in the rotted landscape of his mind:
Its Power, its voice, its fiery gold.
Driven on like a wild thing that no longer reasons,
He came from the dust, was drawn to the darkness,
And sought to regain his treasure -
His purpose for living: his possession.
A madness of desire, a hatred of himself, of Master,
Of the Ring, consumed the last twisted shreds of his soul
Even as he strained towards it,
Suffused in the desperate need to hold again,
His golden, precious, accursed treasure;
His beloved and his bane.
Even as he sought to hold it,
His fate was surely sealed.
He reached for his life, but only Death took his hand,
In a grip that he had not the strength to break.
He went to his doom not when he fell,
The red depths enfolding him in their fiery embrace
One last time - the withering, burning
Last kiss of his hellish Love;
His shrieking misery finally found its ending there:
The fire in his heart met the fire in his hand.
Glorying in his treasure he lost all caution,
But this was not why he fell.
No. His doom was laid upon him
When once again he touched the Bearer.
And the Ring knew his hand,
And carried out its last command,
Unreasoning that his perishing should also be its own.
By that Will into the waiting Fire he was cast.
By that Will of Evil did Evil finally perish.
In one trembling, grasping touch
Of Doom.
-
His fate was surely sealed.
He reached for his life, but only Death took his hand,
In a grip that he had not the strength to break.
Gollum makes his final move and is cursed by the very thing he desires.
The word "doom" is one of those odd things in the English language that has such a dark and fateful meaning but sounds a bit silly. I immediately think of cartoonish The End is Nigh type monks waving wooden signs and chanting "Dooom! Doooooooom!" which makes it difficult to use in serious poetry. I finally chose to use it here because Tolkien chose it specifically and used it specifically and nothing else really quite works. Was it fate or a bane? No, not quite...it really was doom.
Touch of Doom
"Begone, and trouble me no more! If you touch me ever again, you shall be cast yourself into the Fire of Doom."- Return of the King
Upon the ashen mountain, laying in the dust,
With tortured eyes that burned, devoured
Filled with blackest hate,
Fear and insatiable desire warred -
Gollum knew the power of the Ring;
Yes, he knew it all too well and deep.
It's Power unveiled before his jealous hatred;
A wheel of fire, a voice of thunder,
A demand of obedience,
A curse should he fail.
Frodo wielded the weapon of despair,
The Bearer commanded the power of its burning.
And the Ring would work his will,
For it was made such as this -
And Gollum knew it as he groveled. He knew.
Once he had borne its sweet searing presence,
He remembered its weight upon his bony hand.
But he feared the Master who now directed its forces,
The sureness of its Power -
Meaning and truth to be sworn upon,
The one certainty in the rotted landscape of his mind:
Its Power, its voice, its fiery gold.
Driven on like a wild thing that no longer reasons,
He came from the dust, was drawn to the darkness,
And sought to regain his treasure -
His purpose for living: his possession.
A madness of desire, a hatred of himself, of Master,
Of the Ring, consumed the last twisted shreds of his soul
Even as he strained towards it,
Suffused in the desperate need to hold again,
His golden, precious, accursed treasure;
His beloved and his bane.
Even as he sought to hold it,
His fate was surely sealed.
He reached for his life, but only Death took his hand,
In a grip that he had not the strength to break.
He went to his doom not when he fell,
The red depths enfolding him in their fiery embrace
One last time - the withering, burning
Last kiss of his hellish Love;
His shrieking misery finally found its ending there:
The fire in his heart met the fire in his hand.
Glorying in his treasure he lost all caution,
But this was not why he fell.
No. His doom was laid upon him
When once again he touched the Bearer.
And the Ring knew his hand,
And carried out its last command,
Unreasoning that his perishing should also be its own.
By that Will into the waiting Fire he was cast.
By that Will of Evil did Evil finally perish.
In one trembling, grasping touch
Of Doom.
-