The Game: Poetry

Come now, Pawns, and dance to a song 
forgotten in densest part of Man,
where the labyrinth beckons with ageless warnings
that Chaos evolves from Within

We come now to the Last of Days
when a crumbling Society follows the wake
of modern Demigods puffed up on the smoke
of creative accounting and caviar dreams

The Bishop controls the King and Queen; 
Knights grow restless and incite reckless war;
and the Rook keeps vigil for the danger
of people peeking into the empty coffers

So the fall of an Empire comes with a whimper,
the final cry of an ailing beast made lame from greed
and stretching impotent arms towards Masters 
waiting patiently across a Chessboard made of Lives: 


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