Author's Note: It's been a while since I've written one of my odd prose-poems, so here's a relatively longish one to make up for the lapse. This one is dedicated to Dawn Felagund in commemoration of her birthday, and deals with a narcissistic Fëanor and the creation of his most famous works. Inspired by a slightly wacky interpretation of the relevant passage of the Silm:
Yet that crystal was to the Silmarils but as the body to the Children of Ilúvatar: the house of its inner fire, that is within it and yet in all parts of it, and is its life. ... The heart of Fëanor was fast bound to these things that he himself had made.
--From "Of the Silmarils", The Silmarillion, J.R.R. Tolkien

Disclaimer: Not mine, of course. But you knew that already.

Trifles

were all they were meant
to be at first;
mere baubles to pass the
time and amuse
myself with some small craft.

I began with three crystals
devised from diamond and
lightning; shaped them
on the forge until
they glittered, small stars
among the ashes;
gave them delicate shape with
my hammers and
my skill.

Three jewels:
lovely, radiant, perfect;
Mahtan smiled
when he saw them
and praised my skillful hand:
that was not what
I wanted.

So I took their glory
and improved upon it:
a hint of shine here,
a bit of complexity there,
coaxed into them the light
of the Trees,
and bound them
in crystal more pure
than any eyes but
mine had yet seen.

Three jewels:
brilliant, shining, perfect;
Nerdanel was silent,
reaching out a to touch them and
me, she looked up with wonder:
that was not what
I wanted.

So I took their perfection
and improved upon it:
a bit of passion here,
a hint of hatred there, and
I wrapped them in
my own spirit:
my fire thus tempered them
into the zenith of what
has yet been achieved
in this world.

Three jewels
(and more than jewels:
myself):
glorious, matchless, perfect;
my father looked upon them
and wept,
and turned his eyes aside; thus
I knew
my jewels were
complete.

Mere trifles, yes;
but they contain
me, and
I am
worlds.