There he sits alone,
collecting webs of dust.
The writer of stone,
and his scriptures of lust.
It's been far too long,
since he's written a thing.
What ever went wrong,
with Frodo and his ring?
People stopped reading,
and his heart just quit.
Soon, it'd stop that beat,
and his pages would rip.
Shelves of books faded,
his tears dried to ash.
Everything that he hated
-are things of the past.
On the last day of life,
before the earth fell.
One girl wiped his eye,
and gave him a new story to tell
It's about this one child,
and when she saved our lives.
She tapped God on the shoulder,
and he continued with his lines.
Evolution was his last poem.