In the beginning there was stalemate,
static stares both Yin and Yang,
across a Masonic floor.
Geometric laws, steeped in squares of black and white
And pieces just the same, yet
placed by caste, rite by blood, and
guided by the stars in a dark universe.
Battling for their gods, an unseen spirit hand
pitting one against the other at the flip of a coin,
or the draw of a short straw.
And so the drama plays, a script of strategies.
For the inching Grunt there is no retreat,
trudging forward, except to kill
or die in place. Expendable.
Agents lunge at right angles from Holy Places,
as Fortresses plow mercilessly back and forth,
side to side. Crushing.
A Stalking Spy wields his death askance,
upon a sneaky steed. Stealthy.
Even Liberty, a most valiant illusion,
must sacrifice her endless fruits,
to protect the Feeble Genius, always
one step from his demise. Coward.
When treachery comes calling, he’ll fall,
not to any worthy piece, but to a subject
of a crown more cunning than his own.
Victory for now has tipped the scale.
A settled score, the spoils of which
are hidden knowledge and untold riches.
At battle’s end the gods may roll a sigh
of smoke, and chuckle while clasping hands
in a familiar grip of brotherhood,
above a field of heroes, traitors, and sacrificial lambs.
- M. R. Behr
