a King on prix

After the third pawn went
a wise Bishop mentioned
"now is the time to book
an appointment with the
therapist."

My whole camp was happy.
For days, the army was being flung
into suicide missions
with vague plans
no resolutions, and
tired of dying...

...finally, my pieces spoke.

The treasure chest downstairs
was held at gunpoint, and tow
horseman were shot down.
From my window, comrades
looked on in disbelief.

Trauma helds its own
in the residues of the board
and refused to show its face,
til its grimmace bore life
in the indecision of its master.

In the morning my fingers
were shaking, shivering without prompt,
a wise Bishop said,
"Time to face the defence, not the attack"

So, I was sentenced to silence.
And after castling,
met the therapist on g1.
Here behind my fortress of pawns
I closed my eyes, and remembered
the dusk of that day, when the world
was taken in front of my eyes,
when dawn was distant
dwarfed by the shadow
of a disappearing sun.

When I woke,
no pawns guarded my side.
A king on prix.