They call my name, the world stands still, A hush that bends to my own will, No soldiers here, no smoking gun — Just me, the judge, the judged, the one. The dawn is pale, the air unsure, It smells of guilt I can’t obscure, Each breath I take’s a quiet plea, For mercy from the ghost of me. They form their line — my shadow’s crew, Each one a truth I thought I knew, My lies take aim, my doubts reload, I face the shots my conscience sowed. “Ready,” hums the voice inside, Where shame and silence coincide, “Aim,” — the memories align, Their eyes, reflections, just like mine. “Fire,” — no bullets, only sound, The echo knocks me to the ground, It’s not my death — it’s what I’ve done, That burns beneath the hollow sun. The smoke clears slow, I stand again, Unmarked by lead but scarred by when, The heart becomes its own facade, Forever facing the firing squad. And guilt — it doesn’t fade or flee, It learns to live and breathe in me, A judge, a jury, soft, but flawed, Eternal trial — no firing squad.