No one would ever believe if I told,

but there it was, a whisper in the wind,

that skinny naked fellow from

the depths of Middle-earth,

Gollum, they name him, like a shadow,

slithering through tales of treasure and despair.

Oh yes, beside that cursed ring,

the thing that twisted his soul,

there bloomed an interest,

peculiar like the twinkle in his eye,

an infatuation with airplanes,

silver birds soaring high above,

dreams tangled in contrails,

as he peered from his darkened lair,

a misshapen form against the vast tapestry of sky.

"What's that? " he might murmur,

his voice, a curious rasp,

gazing skyward as an airliner rumbled by,

"That’s a really neat pressurized precious,"

he’d say, fingers stretching, reaching,

imagining the cabin filled with faces,

each a story woven in the clouds.

Gollum, the aviation enthusiast,

who could have the slightest idea?

In a world where hobbits hide,

and wizards conjure storms,

there lurked a love for flight,

for the freedom captured in wings,

the hum of engines like

whispers of eternity,

filled with hopes soaring like larks,

away from the dark,

away from the ring,

into the expanse of blue,

where no one could pull him down.

He watched them ascend,

those mighty machines,

buoyant strangers with

their graceful arcs,

while he, with his gnawed fingers,

crafted models from

driftwood and dreams,

sketching designs in the dust,

a runway born in the wild,

in the realm of forgotten things.

Could it be,

in the depths of his riddled heart,

that Gollum, too, longed to fly?

To leave behind the cave,

the shadows that clung like wet moss,

to glide through the sun-drenched air,

untethered, a world beyond the grasp of yearning?

And what tales would he spin,

with each flying wing that

slipped through the clouds?

A ballet of engines

and the roar of freedom,

the thrill of altitude,

the wonder of ascent,

as he threw caution to the winds,

and for a moment,

became more than just a wretch,

but a creature of the skies,

untamed, wild, alive.

So here I stand, a whisperer of this truth,

spilling ink on endless pages,

if only to picture him there,

glancing up, heart racing,

as if the world spun on

tales of engines and wings,

in the heart of a creature

you’d never expect,

but maybe, just maybe,

in that journey of clouds,

a piece of light found a home,

a glimpse of hope, a fleeting dream—

Gollum, the airplane lover,

a rare spark in the tale of shadows.