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.