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MOON LETTERS : POETRY
Hold On - By Morganna


Your bruised and battered body swings below;
I cannot reach your hand upon the ledge.
I stretch still further, urging you to try,
But strength eludes your fingers at the edge
Of mayhem lurking fierily beneath,
And insight dawns upon your dirty brow.

You know that you will fall, your fingers slip,
Your body plunge into that hellish waste.
A timely, fitting end, your glance it tells -
What better end for such whoíve failed as I.
"Oh, donít let go!" I call in terror mad,
My voice a frantic plea among the flames.

Iím tired, so say your eyes, the battle lost.
"Donít you let go," I beg, my heart aflame.
For you, Iíll try, the eyes portray, at last,
And mustering all my strength, I reach again.
And this--this time--connection truly made,
I feel your weight, so slight, suspended there.

I pull with all my might, and heart, and will;
It seems I reach for something deep inside,
To finish what was started years ago,
For Frodoís life is tangled up with mine.
I feel the fleshless form beneath my grasp
And run, half-carrying you, postponing death.

Itís over. Now your old voice has returned.
Itís done, you say, your features in amaze.
But itís not done, I realize, too late,
And pull you, weakened, frail, upon the rock.
You comfort me when I dear Rosie mourn,
And all that might have been - there at the end.

The day is long, and sweet, and whole again.
I see you, healing, basking in the care
Of those who love and greatly honor you.
You smile on me, assuring All is well.
And yet, somehow, I know that somethingís wrong,
But all that I can do for now, is hope. . .

And bid you hold! Hold on, my dear, hold tight
To thoughts of Rivendell, of elven light -
To memories of loved ones, far and near,
To forests, fields, and sweet old stories told.
So when youíve held enough, and time is spent,
Youíll journey to your final home - and rest.

- Postlude -

Our home, Bag End, is boisterous and alive
With family, friends, and children underfoot.
Yet I, unwilling, think of ships a-sail
And strange birds calling in the salty air.
But I must wait, hold on--until itís time--
Itís time, at last, to make my own way West.

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