Writer 10
I refuse to carry the torch, but I still wear the clothes
The torch was more than just a guiding light
That defied the night by providing sight.
It was hatred fueled determination
-A burning agent which spurned a nation-
Designed to divide by lies, pride and spite.
The garb was far more than a simple uniform
It was a lineage, older than cuneiform.
An extension of skin representing your kin,
And projecting the sinful intentions within,
To adorn the pedigree with which you were born.
I used to think this is what I was forced to be
By my family, who had passed the torch to me.
I gave my life to a fiery circle of souls
And unmerciful roles in the purposeful goals
Of heritage so evil, it would scorch the sea.
At first it was not my actions, just my speech,
But I soon began to practice what I preached.
From mild derision to vile and driven-
I murdered the men and defiled the women,
Attacking any other faction in my reach.
Stalking prey in the field, so somber and tired,
I was stricken with guilt. I was no longer inspired.
The blood lust that used to come to me was smothered.
Suddenly alone while in company of brothers,
My heart was desperate to conquer the fire.
I snuffed out the torch's vicious, steely flame.
The hate was gone, but the history remained.
The sum of aggression, alpha to sigma
Had dressed me in a palpable stigma.
I repent! Still... My victims feel the same.