A/N: This is what is known as a found poem; to create one, you take a prose passage and trim away words until it's a poem. They are quite fun.
Weathertop
From The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring; Book 1, Chapter 11
Though everything else remained dim and dark
the shapes became terribly clear.
Five tall figures:
two standing, three advancing.
Keen and merciless eyes;
long grey robes;
helms of silver;
swords of steel.
Their eyes pierced him.
He drew his own sword,
and it flickered red, as a firebrand.
Two halted.
The third was taller than the others:
and on his helm was a crown.
In one hand,
a long sword.
In the other,
a knife that glowed with pale light.
Frodo threw himself on the ground,
heard himself crying aloud:
O Elbereth! Gilthoniel!
He struck at the feet of his enemy.
A shrill cry rang out in the night;
a pain like poisoned ice pierced his shoulder.
With last effort he slipped the Ring from his finger and closed his hand tight upon it.