Upon the checkered field I claim my throne, Each square a fated choice, each move my bane. Ambition’s hand doth guide my heart of stone, And blood once spilt cries out through mind and vein. The bishops hiss their counsel, cloaked in night, The knights leap wild through dreams of crown and fame; You deem the whispers prophecy and right, Yet find the board itself betrays your claim. Now cornered by the deeds your will hath sown, You see your kingdom crumble, piece by piece. The pawns arise, their master's sins made known— Checkmate is called; your restless soul finds cease. So fall the proud, who move 'gainst reason’s hand, For kings are but the pieces fate hath plann’d. For kings are but... the pieces fate hath plann’d.
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