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“The world is indeed full of peril, and in it there are many dark places; but still there is much that is fair, and though in all lands love is now mingled with grief, it grows perhaps the greater.” - J.R.R.Tolkien Burning with hatred's incentive, his thoughts quite twisted with sins, corrupted his allies, inventive the only loyal one truly within. A massacre of the unworthy, where goodness guilty becomes; yet unpretentious his curtsy before the world's doomed homes. His mantle covers all currents, the might is still by honour touched, the glory insidious is coherent in terms of greater cause he clutched. Thrice mighty the brutality, annihilating slowly, it spreads, in the blood triumphing this reality where the unjust skin sheds. Beyond the obvious, a premonition. The remoteness with evil fumes, the impenetrable sky's ignition where smothery ashes consumes. What hope is to find there? There's some good in the air, the evil device yet knows where to attack weak rays that barely bear. Yet in peace is there progress? The mortals are grateful forever. Eternity is always to bless, even torture's absolute nether pushes stagnation to progress. Are we destined to appreciation? Yes, dire circumstances thrive. But today, doom's doom in patience of the Evil Eye preparing to obliterate life. Wrath and might are serious. Hypocrisy is not the One deceit, epic evil causes honour in imperious resistance shielded by its opposite wit. The Darkness of Fallen Might still emits glory to defend, and the black unmanifested fright leaves beauty to properly ascend. The narrowing of the Elohim in forms is already delusion, deceptive reactions within... So the opponent in conclusion whatever it draws from discord shapes all conflicts in identities that polishes the twist of wars of one's own reason; or amenities will push you to slumber of quietude but indifference in ambrosia is born. So Rise in Virtue, you, Challenged Magnitude, of Victims that in Homage have sworn. Oaths of Jealousy are always eager to wipe out; seemingly fair, to protect. But ... should Morgoth Imperishably trigger, in the End you'd the Flame recollect. The Void is the abundance of Causation. Otherwise you'd spoil the Light. And... should Feanor thank the Damnation? For petty become all battles without Might. Untouched is the epos of beauty. Beauty of interactive shapes dear... But... it shall be Middle Earth's duty. Corruption to defend from the cheers of simpletons' ignorance Leagueless. So veil, you Morgoth, unleash your wrath, there are signs of threats you can't Bless, with your Device keep Rule of Arda's Path. You shall observe other angle of corruption. Without a Ray that refracted Creativity. And after humiliation's end, the eruption of local Volcanoes shall purify Captivity. So for now, don't you ever disappear. The core's infused with new beginnings... But duality's coalesced in your dear corridor of Life's Flower... and misgivings are truly found in those clueless, yet arrogantly convinced in partial visions... But you... are true... save for your less merciful verity that forged your Firm Decisions. It's not fair, the end of the years. But it needs to experience, or does it? Truth resounds.. but an entity hears cocky self-promotion. Well, dominance has its way to remind you of your values. Grotesque is widespread in nescient fools. So let them mock... but the truce persists, so do Feanor's lighted cursed jewels. A core is a core, it decided to be tested. Yet Life's absolutely impartial in immortality... Yet... where spiders decide to nest sometimes Light gets consumed in fatality. Unbearable the losses you need to endure. But we shall rejoice Melkor's saved heart. And now... what's learnt turns to soilure and Greater Eru's plan for the Start. It spins, so Past is as relevant. Present's inevitable in Experience... So, Faith in the Future's effervescent, yet Pain Unbearably trapped in its residence. No, it's just a disgrace, when a heart loses aesthetics. Feanor's beauty's to embrace and crimes are a matter of ethics. Beauty, shine bright or dark. It doesn't really matter now. Don't get impressed by the mark that bothers you and don't you bow before something deviated in ways that irritate without afflatus... For what is all, we all created, but your soul has it's own status. And somewhat calm are the fortunate ones; they have never been a hostage of Morgoth; those who endured in bravery are young; glorified eternally, heroes of Valor and Oath. Let it be, it shall happen according to God's plan, that Perfect indeed is. But our responsibility is recording our personal role, to complete His. Have you had a laugh now, Melkor? Now that you look back with newborn mildness. No, despite it. It's embedded, your core. Killing can express itself, you've sworn, no kindness. Killing in ways that are provocative, different. Why should status que bore you to death? And this is how... he went. For the first time at desecration he wept.
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