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.

He seeks truth in places of no good.
He flies high in places where others stood
Still he cries tears of perpetual sense.
A chameleon
his outer vesture cloaks his identity.

Unyielding
He plants his foot in the dirt.
Tangled vines tie his toes
contrasting his poetic prose.
Left dangling in the temptress spider lily's web
the noose tightens
as the old boy sings.

A fist with two thumbs
he raises like a martian.
Strangers illegibly write him
off.

A Jekyllish laugh
empties the mucus from his lungs.
Eons of inhaling senseless knowledge
he finds a second breathe to speak.
Words slice the web of lies
spinning silk into impenetrable pride.

Raw and uncut
his diction polishes diamonds
before were only rust.

He wakens every morning
Anew defiant face.
Contradicting himself
a joke
he cackles everyday.
The children who say he's changed
are correct.
But the chameleon found his true colors
somewhere between the lines
of white and black.