The Arrogant Writer

- anon

​

For the sixth time this month, 
The hopeless romantic opened a pearly white letter,

Hoping for something 
That was nothing short of a miracle.

The instance rolled over, storm-like, 
and he was standing at the bow, 
Seeing for the umpteenth time a mirage, 
Of an glassy welcome, a returned wave.

Something gestured back at him, 
And the mist broke quickly, 
For it was something, and then nothing. 
Only platitudes, 
Encased in flat, lifeless water.

He would put down his pen 
That he used to steer the sails 
Of a ship he knew was great. 
Not because it was something, 
But because it was not nothing.

The hopeless romantic still sits alone. 
His pen remains unopened, 
The direction of his sails hasn’t wavered, 
Because he feels not the need to check their design.

I wonder if he thinks the blood on Achilles’ heel tastes sweet.