Games played between us,
like fire and water,flowing as time like wild pawns to the slaughter,
of spirits and side-steps,
only to lend, with garish bishops and counters,
inside, to bend,
standing behind us and up
on one end, with the light of the moon
gazing down upon them,
and touching their delicate,
elegant grace,
tracing with demons and dice, the edge of their
faces in starlight,
above any blue night, when the roulette
connecting
stops spinning in flight beneath
angels and ladders, whilst we just take the time,
to stop,
and to touch;
a meeting of eyes;
and the play will continue, avoiding the rain,
hovering above
quiet snakes
of the king for yet another
gentle day will pass,
where it matters not if I feel,
for it will not be said lest the turning
of the wheel is halted and held at
stand still, and it is acknowledged
that I am, in fact, whole
and real;
the white rabbit can come with his funhouse
and cards,
and lay them down; tenderly now;
before the generous Queen of Hearts,
tearing her emptiness
apart with his rooks, his gentle words,
and paws…
and his silver tongue will be
keeping score as he offers a way to the gate;
passing through dust, he counts his spaces,
and moves his piece according to fate;
and the knight
soon falls upon his sword of longing;
and rocks us; with passion;
into splendid checkmate.
