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Rated: E · Poetry · Emotional · #2207098
My main character’s guilty lament of his crimes before facing battle the next day.
Excerpt of Winter Rebellion
- Warren McGarrison’s inner conflict (expected to eliminate his big brother, a heartless tyrant, the next morning).

Helplessly moving on a path to where I know not. Heart is shrinking, hands are shaking,
‘Cause there’s no promise of tomorrow.
I’ve been called many names for my many faces worn,
I’ve been martyr, victim, savior, demon thanks to history’s guise. Again and again my identity’s blurred, and the lines turn to haze.
Now my name is dead and means nothing anymore, just as long as my heart keeps beating to the clock that keeps on ticking. ‘Cause how can I care about honor or have faith unbothered,
When there’s no promise of tomorrow?

For my soul is restless on the question of survival, in a lonely tug of war between doing what’s right and stirring over what might unfold.
So I play the game of living through another night and how to cross the next day - Because how can I think in hope and take the path that’s right, when the right thing is the wrong thing for making it alive? So I drink the cup of shameful force and do what must be done. ‘Cause how can I dance with my chance to survive for the sake of wrong or right - and turn a blind eye to dangers on the side,
When there’s no promise of tomorrow?

Is there a way to survive in real life with a mind so contorted -
without harming those I have to love while loving those I have to harm?
‘Till I find a way, the hidden sectors hold my place, as the price out in front is too great.

Do I live a lie in shame? Or do I be a hero and fall to die?
Will I learn to lace my reason with my deeds? And to venture though the day free from guilt of trespasses? My habits half-hung my care to change with rope made long ago by rotting will to live. My Crimes slowly waste away My conscience that still hangs in my cellar. His voice is waning weaker, while the noise of busy life takes over - where I have to think fast.
Time after time I fall silent.
Cause there’s no promise of tomorrow!

And it’s my word to my death or my flight to live this time.
If all-things be relative to wrong or right,
Then who’s to say I won’t be damned? And who’s to say I’ll be saved if I tell the lethal truth? Although I feel the crow of death fly near, the harbinger of my fate just vanished with the answers that I need, leaving me in the tormenting obscurity. Yet my confusion’s consumed by the fact:
That there’s no promise of tomorrow.

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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2207098