Modern Romanticism

A badge of your tragedy
hangs like an ornament,
like those teetering tears
on your chin's edge.

You hold in
the words you fear
will deafen you.

You cower in a hole,
displaced from the battle
you’re commanding.

You’re blind
to such results
of your motions,
bottling in an ocean,
blocking rivers.

I can see it,
just as you feel it
because it stains you
in spots of black ink,
leaving you spilled.

Being an inch away
from becoming a star
in your limitless void,
what do you wait for
in denying your right
to have sight?