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tdudleyesquirePoems
A lack of presence left the blind poet saltier than Scrooge. He drowns in ink clutching the hand of his past. Transparent with an iron grip he'll never let go. The grip of the pen finally has him feeling life between his legs. Straddling his fears being on top makes him feel complete. Atop Mt. Olympus the high feels more noble opposing the mere mortals. Romanticism is the seed he sows into the ground. Sprouting a tree tall that none can climb. He looks out his window marveling at his roots. The poor fool will never learn. Through this frame he is destined to brood. Alone he will fantasize his next epic. Rather creating it.
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Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 2:29 PM UTC
Death to the Poet
A lack of presence left the blind poet saltier than Scrooge. He drowns in ink clutching the hand of his past. Transparent with an iron grip he'll never let go. The grip of the pen finally has him feeling life between his legs. Straddling his fears being on top makes him feel complete. Atop Mt. Olympus the high feels more noble opposing the mere mortals. Romanticism is the seed he sows into the ground. Sprouting a tree tall that none can climb. He looks out his window marveling at his roots. The poor fool will never learn. Through this frame he is destined to brood. Alone he will fantasize his next epic. Rather creating it.
tdudleyesquire
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tdudleyesquire
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 2:29 PM UTC
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