Lord of sparkling pyrite illusions,
like Saruman with his many cloaks
projecting power through delusions
and defying the Shepherd of Oaks.
He seeks the end of the Age of Man
and is false idol, and false wizard,
and pollutes all those whom he can,
corrupting Middle-Earth with his word.
Having power through what is believed
by those who kneel beneath his tower,
it is a sleight of hand shadow sleeved
as a showman’s at his premiere hour—
not a power of intelligence,
but of lies, deceits, a con’s bluster
ensorcelling those deprived of sense
as they gaze on a false-gold luster.
And what forces may vie against him
when Mt. Doom rumbles at its distance?
Good men lose faith and the light grows dim
while the elder race flees hither thence.
For Gondor has lost its favored son
and sulks in the shadow of Mordor
while Rohan wastes without direction,
king idle behind a wormwood door.
The Rohirrim, too, ride without aim,
flanking the enemy, to and fro,
almost as if playing a child’s game
rather than defeating their sworn foe.
Wherefore Gandalf? To the very small,
yet for who knows what wizard’s reason
as Hobbits rise to the horn-blast call
for a time in the easy season.
For comfort is the worst evil spell
and is far worse than the Uruk-hai
as it halts the hero from his tale
and aids the tireless, triumphant Eye.
Lord Of The Golf Rings
Published
Tangleroot And Tressknot 