Waiting To Play

This is the 3rd chess poem of mine I have entered here - feel free to check out the others - The Ballad of Appon and The Honeymoon Gambit.  I wrote most of this years ago but hit mental block and couldnt finish it...till today.

Waiting to play

The field is ready, eight by eight

Yet till the clock speaks, armies wait.

Rooks rage, cornered; knights lust to bound;

Bishops sombrely flit around.

Pawns sit meekly:  shall question naught,

For humble service is their lot.

The royal pair pull back the reins

Till giant hands command again.

What judgements, then, do chessmen make

Of chequered paths they're called to take?

Immersed in wars of wood are they,

Where unseen forces work for play.

What subtle depths do they perceive

Beyond the web their players weave?

But loyal to a fault are these;

They will not thwart nor aim to please.

No single rush or sudden surge

Is born of an unsanctioned urge.

The very board may silent scream

What it knows of prior dreams;

Yet what hand save ours sets the pace?

None, this is but our private race.

Come then, curious minds shall meet,

Amid the patter of felt feet.

Simple verse and meter... but it's still sick.

I like it :)

Thanks - I have an obsession with octameter, I admit.

hahahh - they do with a powerful enough blender, just like cats and dogs

I know you like this game of chess,

But don't forget where you play your best,

I need a partner in a 2hg,

Nobody knows what that is but you and me.

lmao carter you stalker