March With the Orcs - A Poem

I cast aside a precious treasure,
That I expect no one to find,
If they escaped, they've all gone with Frodo,
And I am left behind,

I am drowning very slowly,
In a sea of monstrous beasts,
I feel their unclean bodies,
I follow their stomping feet,

As this weary march grows longer,
My death is within sight,
With ropes and whips to restrain me,
There is no way to fight,

They laugh and scoff at my size,
They grab me by the hair,
They fling me about as they wish,
It is more than I can bear,

Merry suffers as well,
But we are kept apart,
Seeing his wounded and tired form,
Burdens my weary heart,

He lies not too far from me,
Pale and haggard and worn,
I barely recognize his face,
He is bruised and bloody and torn,

I have been whipped and kicked and tightly bound,
I have not eaten in days,
But I take heart in the vision of a Ranger's face,
He is running, running my way.

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