Omen: A Poem Inspired by Middle-Earth

I have come to the conclusion,
There are no paths,
Only one swollen river,
Whose tributaries lead,
To the same old desert,
Our father’s called the world,
And christened paradise,
Over all creation.

Here the songs of men cannot grow.
They are too coarse for knowing,
Their idol’s whimpering decay,
Although the shadow perceives,
That which the light ignores,
And would lock away,
Forever.

Here the dead do not sing,
Or laugh,
Or dream aloud,
To feed the coffers,
Of the living,
Where they lie.

Time is their God,
Faceless and unalterable,
Silent as the bare shore’s,
Sunken plane.

Thought holds them back,
From the morning’s ledge,
And binds their souls,
To a withering tree.

O how many ages,
Have gone by,
Since that black root,
First spawned life?
How many tears,
Have been shed,
Since those branches,
First shaded Eve’s grave?
The hands of Big Ben,
Erase and turn,
The last vestiges,
Of Lilith’s stain.
Upon the crest,
Of mount Baden,
Flutters the serpent,
Brave kings bow to.