Fanpome: "Seven Falls"
The form is a sestina, which originated in the 12th-century with the French troubadours. The sestina uses six six-line stanzas plus a triad at the end. The end-words of each line rotates between stanzas, and the triad includes all six end-words. The form is more complicated than that, but if you want to know more, that's what Wikipedia is for. :)
Comments--both praise and critique--here or on the SWG are welcome!
On SWG, the poem is rated Teens for violence.
But Melkor also was there, and he came to the house of Fëanor, and there he slew Finwë King of the Noldor before his doors, and spilled the first blood in the Blessed Realm; for Finwë alone had not fled from the horror of the Dark.
Fall seven times.
Stand up eight.
Ah, with such vigor you pronounce my fall!
Lift your eyes and vow to drive me into dark!
You strike me low and I am slow to rise;
I let your eyes linger long on my blood.
Deep within you this delusion I plant:
Slain I may be by a faint-hearted king!
But what a noble beneficent king!
You believe that yet? Oh, so far to fall!
By fastidious workings, I did plant
In your people's hearts desire for the dark,
Feral, forgott'n lust for the taste of blood.
Dare strike me again! Laughing, I will rise.
In Fëanor's heart, already did I rise;
In Fingolfin's too, fair Noldorin king.
My name pounds in your gentle last-born's blood!
Till I am needless to fulfill your fall
(But how I want to watch your eyes go dark!)
As brother fights brother to brother supplant.
Remember how Yavanna did trees plant
That, on the horizon, made pale light rise?
See now: the horizon roils with dark!
Think you such power shall be quell'd by a king
Whose full might it takes to bring my fourth fall?
Whose bubbling breaths bring the taste of his blood?
In whom fatigue moans with each beat of his blood?
Teeth bared with joy, loosely my feet I plant,
Intentionally, let him force my fall.
Intentionally, even faster I rise!
Till certainty dims the eyes of the king;
Extinguish'd their light with hastening dark.
Our shadows strive against deepening dark
Till I fall the sixth time, slipped in his blood
And rise, laughing, to hear the curse of the king:
"No growing things can your barren hands plant.
Nothing alive from you ever will rise."
Swing, little king! I am waiting to fall!
At my seventh fall, I rise, reap the dark
From a seed fed with lies and blood. I RISE!
Plant my sword in the body of a king.