For The Hate of the Game

We play queens

surrounded by knights,

we take relationships

and create

pawns.

 

He said my piece

trapped his red

desire,

a porcelain

ivory queen

our of

rosewood ebony

rooks.

 

In secret, he moved us,

one-by-one,

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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