Modern Romanticism

A badge of your tragedy
hangs like an ornament,
or a life for dear life,
blending in with the rest
of your desperation.

You hold in
what you hold back,
going in reverse,
retreating 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.
It has written you,
as it inhibits you.

Fire rages on,
but no ice melts.
You’re an inch away
from becoming a star
in your limitless void.

What do you wait for
in denying your right
to have sight?