Checkmate
Said the jester to his king
A grand feast follows
Arsenic it’s seasoning
When you see your life in a broken mirror
It is Terminal
Terminal velocity
When dreams plummet to the ground
Bearing witness
Is a fool’s game
I am the master of all I survey
The blind man says
As the deaf man listens intently
The thought is always what counts
Puppet masters
With sundered strings
As invisible wires
String them up by their soul
To come this far
Only to collapse now
Finish line in sight
Matters not when your breathing wanes
Sane men
Playing the games of fools
Betting the small trifle
The lives of others
Lost causes and foolhardy ventures
When all you have in defense
Are blunted spears
And perforated shields
To bet what you never had
To gamble what can never be held
When light fills the glass house
When the wolves draw near
When you are pawn and not player
These tragedies write themselves
