For The Hate of the Game

We play queens

surrounded by knights,

we take relationships

and create



He said my piece

trapped his red


a porcelain

ivory queen

our of

rosewood ebony



In secret, he moved us,


around the checkered

maple board.

We never suspected the

Master of the Game

kept his cold fingers crossed

behind his back,

but I guess

we’re blinded by

illusion’s touch.

I guess we’re all just

pieces in his

childish game.


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