Three Moves

Three fragile glass pieces
Pawn, Rook, and Knight,
each vying for the crown,
a crown adorned with three diamonds,
but worthy of only one.

The diamonds gleam,
reflecting in the Knight’s eyes
a glint of fierce desire,
a heavy hunger pulling her
crooked steps higher.

One step forward, two to the side,
dodging trust, leaping over virtue,
landing closer to the throne,
yet farther from her soul.

Oh mighty, I can make it.

Rook is the incarnate of strength,
wicked power strung to the throne.
Drawing blood to seize the shattered crown,
bodies pile high,
a mountain of conquest,
until she stands atop her self-made throne.

Dozen steps forward or to the side,
she moves with killing in her stride,
treading the crimson path without pause,
as if the rivers of blood spilling through the streets
were guiding her to the throne.

Oh mighty, I can make it.

Pawn crawls, slow, steady, 
a royal coward scoffs: easy target,
stamp her out before she nears.
But though small, she is mighty,
her heart beating with quiet fire.

Her kindness spills into every gesture, 
not weakness, but a shield
woven from the loyalty of those she lifts.
The people gather,
hands like bridges, arms like pillars,
bearing her weight over the battlefield,
their voices drowning the jeers.

Step by step she climbs,
not on blood,
but on the hands of many,
until the crown, heavy with diamond,
is made heavier by promises.

Oh mighty, I have made it.