Where would a Hobbit be,
struggling alone in his long quest,
without the second set of sturdy feet?

How could a Hobbit
stand a hope
had he to face the eerie taunting of the Ringwraiths,
the haunting, blazing evil gaze
on his own?

How could a Hobbit see
some good in the world,
something worth fighting for,
without those earnest eyes that
speak of stars, of tales that endure,
of light persisting, of promises pure?

And how is it possible for any man,
let alone a Hobbit,
to tread to Mordor’s smoking pit,
up to Mount Doom where nothing but shadow looms,
to bear the unbearable—
the One Ring that whispers its seduction,
too enticing, too powerful,
as to rule creatures and all—
without a friend against all enemies,
whose loyalty as deep as ancient roots?

Impossible. Unimaginable.
Yet however unlikely to win against the odds without aid,
the Hobbit shall stand and brave the gathering storm,
even if the fellowship ceases to exist,
for it’s the Masterful Weaver who holds fate’s thread,
He crafts a tale where heroes small find victory as He intends
No matter the trials, the losses, the cost,
the Hobbitses shall not be lost—
even in the sorrow of parting’s riposte.

Not all tears are evil, some guide to the Undying Lands
where peace harks and wounds find complete healing.

Oh, how quickly does the moon reach the sky?
Made thy dwelling in the wide blue yonder;
Cold summer night limbers up without try;
The ether opens wide, to thee it grows fonder
Revolving in an eccentric orbit,
Desolate beauty of magnetic depth;
More captivating than thousand comets,
Making the earth livable is thy strength
Yet thine existence is causing the tides,
Waters and rocks rise and fall in each pull;
Creating rhythm and chaos inside
Oh how swift is the glide from full to fool?
Since earth holds thy not, slowly drift away
Howbeit, memories to the core shall stay.

In hollow valleys, off the distant peaks
Down in the dim woods, braiding canopies

In the quietude of slow-dancing leaves
Through the howling and raging of the winds

Across plateau of no growth or decline
along blind, chiseled cliff, a cul-de-sac

In the triumphant reach of high summit
Between the rocky canyons of defeat

Grace at every gaze despite long travails,
dazed in wonder, never cease to amaze

In the bone-parched deserts, devoid of life
Out of flowing streams, rivers without strife

At the depth where lights dwindle to nothing
On familiar shore radiant weathering

In jubilant rejoicing when love wins
Even through the painful cuts as it stings

At the plain of anxious waiting and doubt,  
In tiresome striving to glorious thriving

As it always has, Mercy will carry
Crushed, it wont let me be; though tears may tarry

On the day of the great silence,
the sun did not rise;
the earth is wordless;
all of creation holding its breath,
making sense of the brutal execution
for the entertainment of the savages.
“Was it all a folly?”
Devout acolytes hide dismay in faint breeze,
oscillating between fear and faith;
Restless, feeble, panting wraith
men of god they were, ‘til swayed disoriented
for the God-man lay dead in a tomb,
whilst Hades danced in voracious darkness.
Anxious as they await, anxiously I wait
for any sign of hope from the supposed Begotten
A day without hope is a thousand years of hell,
thence, we cling onto memories,
allowing them to pump out of our eyelids,
but pain seems to blur past graces too soon;
soon enough, for the hurting to believe he's forsaken;
soon enough, for me to demolish thine words
and reconstruct my own creed--
One that which may serve many;
One that would bring me assurance, if any.  
But the heart never stops hurting--
beating, however, decaying;
the recess of life still awaits Your touch,
Why have You gone silent?  
Weren’t You the promised One?
I beg for a sigh, a proof of Life
Better is a heavenly groan than hellish melodies
Call it black Saturday,  
Call it dark, crestfallen age
until Thy prove it otherwise.

Devious legions lurking in broad daylight,
fiercely wandering like they always do;
preying on willing souls for centuries,
luring them by offering fantasies
But ****** are they—young Wormwood and Screwtape—
until men start slaughtering each other  
for tacos; flesh and blood jump to Sheol.

Once upon a time, a traveler was carrying seven big bags of pain. He went to a sanctuary, and people welcomed him—one waved at him, another smiled at him. But nobody offered to help him with his bags.

The people in the sanctuary were carrying their little bags, too. Besides, they were busy studying and talking about accommodation and companionship, so they couldn’t afford to waste time.

The traveler has traveled for seven years with no rest. He was tired and thirsty.

So despite being a stranger in the place, he immediately asked, “Can somebody give me a drink? I’m so thirsty!”

The people looked at him but ignored his inquiry. Nobody offered him a drink because they were busy identifying the ingredients for the perfect refreshment for travelers. They couldn’t afford to waste time.

While being exhausted and thirsty still, the traveler kept on walking around the sanctuary until he finally saw a pantry. He was happy and excited to taste food since he fed on some junk for years.

So with all his remaining strength, he grabbed the menu and asked for roasted beef, but the caterers offered him a roasted chicken instead.

The traveler didn’t take it. The people thought he was being prideful and demanding; little did they know that he's allergic to chicken meat.

The traveler was mindful of people’s business and busyness, so he thought it would be best for him to just keep the pain, hunger, and thirst to himself. And so he did.

Several days after, the people in the sanctuary remembered the traveler. They were finally done with their conversations; the refreshments and roasted beef were already available, too, so they looked for him.

They looked and looked, but the traveler was no more.