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.