Introspectivity.

It always starts out with,
that involuntary twitch,
eyes popping,
nervous rocking,
hard to catch my breath;

This much accursed gift,
heart haywire, mind adrift,
engine sputter,
pulse aflutter,
can’t run away from it;

A sand that’s too fine to sift,
these hands: too broken to lift,
no motivation,
slow salvation,
beyond a dark, longstanding rift;

Steaming piles of shit,
line my pathway to its pit,
a one way road,
on the map I hold,
of a soul that’s counterfeit.

Reality Check, One-Two.

Once the long game is over,
and regardless of which color has won –
there are not separate storage boxes,
in which the different pieces belong –
No matter how valiant or measly,
a King gets thrown into the box once again,
right alongside of a Pawn –
His Majesty learns the hard way:
at the end of each and every day –
that he is NOTHING once the Chessboard is gone;

It matters little what the King is actually made of,
his knighted horses follow his every command –
not a single Bishop dragging its marbled feet,
loyal to a language that none can truly understand –
the Queen, after so long spent being so well-protected,
receives a sting from reality’s whip-lashed backhand –
beyond the squares of the checkered black, red and white,
lies no purpose for a polished marble Rook or a granite horseman.

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