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Checkmate

There was a time when checkmate was her future.
Then, she pushed a pawn, he advanced a knight.
They meddled with the squares,
black and white before them,
compounding into a lovely shade of gray.
He predicted her moves well in advance.
He may capture her queen, but she’s a goddess still,
taking his bishop deep within her game,
moving towards the grid that’ll change her name,
that makes her cherish the place they collided,
the end they strive to attain, with her on top,
in his face, in the place, on the board,
where even if he leaves her tied up in a corner,
with no moves, insane, she won just the same.

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What is Poetry? – part 3

What is Poetry? – part 3

Poetry doesn’t necessarily rhyme,

it just climbs out of the mind,

out of a recess in time,

obsessed with success

and blind to the cold shoulder it usually finds.

It’s a mess, it’s sublime,

it’s a knife as a prize,

it is life in the eyes,

it is death, of a kind,

it’s leaving something behind,

it’s caressing the past

and the future that lies,

dormant though brooding

ahead.

Who says poetry is dead?