Mine... All mine... My precious...MY PRECIOUS.
Forever, focused on the foe--self,
left alone in a state of solitude, centuries
of sordid and sick dreams, the ring gave reason,
for this once hobbit hermit, to live.
Come to me my precious... come to me...
The dawn of destruction, filtered through caves
and cracked walls, of a crazed mind too alone
to understand compassion and self control.
Precious, possessed a personal chance of greatness,
without a living soul, without a commitment.
It's MINE!
Just a memory of mooreland and marshes,
stretching out for miles, grass on gnarled feet
soft and soothing, raindrops and snowstorms,
upon the lonesome road, but so very sweet -
these days before his precious possessed him,
were full of a denying hobbit's dreams.
Gold trophy winner
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