Otis sat with quiet eyes, his fingers resting still,
Surveying the squares, the black and white before him,
Each piece a soldier, ready for battle\'s dance,
And his mind a garden of strategies, rich with bloom.
He liked to use different gambits, secret doors to victory,
Not one path for him, but many winding roads,
Each move a surprise, each twist a flash of daring,
The pawns, the bishops, knights all part of his design.
Against opponents who leaned too hard on order,
He would laugh quietly, watching their faces tighten,
He played with the air of a storm on a still morning,
Reckless and deliberate, patient as the earth’s slow turn.
Otis knew the game as a man knows his own heart,
And so he opened, a queen’s gambit, an Italian flirtation,
And when they thought they knew him, he would shift,
Breaking their certainty, moving with the pulse of change.
Not for him the simple checkmate, cold and quick,
But a tapestry woven with moves that felt like waves,
Crashing softly, one upon the other, until all was sea,
And his opponent, lost, found only the smile of defeat.