Smeagol's End
5-15-02
Darkness is your cruel master,
you seek no other, one kinder.
The cold is your tattered blanket,
tearing into your soft flesh.
Your tiny soul long ago froze
into a solid, unfeeling space.
You hate the light, the warmth,
that you once felt love.
You despise your former self;
long centuries together without rest.
A small bright trinket, your lifeline,
a brand, like fire, it tortures.
You must find your lost treasure;
a dangerously beautiful ring.
But you hate the lothful object,
within your small, rotting, usless mind.
Driven by hate or love for the pretty thing,
you follow it to certain doom.
At last regaining the demon brings release,
the only relief left; death.