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.
- Author: gray0328 ( Offline)
- Published: September 25th, 2024 09:43
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 14
- Users favorite of this poem: Cheeky Missy
Comments1
Whoa! Cull a low whistle in concluding. My la. What a breathtaking beauty this is, drawing me into its folds to nestle in its embrace whilst I marvel. Fond of taking too long on my moves in chess, apparently, the metaphor grandly rendered to effect with details to bring in the kill, I dearly love this. Thank you so very much for sharing.
Thanks for sharing your feedback Missy, I appreciate your kind words
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