Disclaimer: Tolkien's not mine. Well, it's my poem, but Boromir and LOTR and Denethor and so forth, they're not mine. You get the idea, we've danced this dance before.
A/n: I wrote this in August, on a hot summer day at the table with nothing better to do. Enjoy, make my day and review :)
Summary: A poem about the death of Boromir. I really like it, though I'm bad at poems.
The end of Boromir of Gondor:
Blood and betrayal poured from his wounds
The thought of joining his forefathers tombs,
Flew to his mind, telling of his city that he'd left behind.
Her walls white, and her steeples as fair
As the sunlight on a young maiden's hair.
And now as the world darkened and dimmed,
He saw his broken body, limp and sprawled-limbed.
His shield lay beside him, bearing a white tree as it's symbol,
His sword lie there also, it had been swift and nimble.
The horn wasn't far, cloven in two, he could still hear the sharp notes as it blew,
Calling for aid, though none would come
Till it was to late. His senses were numb.
The mightiest warrior can be felled by one arrow...
The tallest and boldest as weak as a sparrow.
But though pierced by many, he still fought and defended
The shirefolk, whom he so befriended.
Outnumbered by the dozens, he fought valiantly like none before,
So passes forgiveness on Boromir, son of Denethor.