Poem Hunter
A Chess Game, Life
( / Midwest)

A Chess Game, Life

desks sit in rows
like prison bars
next door a telephone
sings hurry songs
i watch leaves fall
from trees
watch dust
gather dust
on windowpanes

this is life
played out with wooden pieces
programmed for

i sell my soul now
i sit with stone pawns
i move when hands
move me
i answer
the tele-

yes devil
i've come to sell
my soul

User Rating: 5,0 / 5 ( 3 votes ) 3

Comments (3)

Hauntingly disturbing reflection on that which we hesitate to see. Life─the vanity of vanities, creeps in this petty pace until the last syllable of recorded time.
Ben - I like your fractured look at fractured life, with a fractured soul! Check out my poem, If I Should Lose My Soul, and see what you think. Write, write and write. Cheryl Moyer
Awesome awesomeness; and I'm tongue tied just trying to do justice here.