This Is War

These are not wars, These are not soldiers. These are games, These are pawns. Pit against one another by Kings, Queens; their Bishops and their Rooks. Hiding, yet again, behind what they took. Look not to the knights in armor, Which shine with none other than reflection, Of those faces who grimace and wince behind iron, Only to be diffracted into the shields of another’s cast. Tyranny once beheaded by the behemoth of forfeiture, Now thrives cringing at the sight beneath its hand. As black and red trickles in cubic matrimony, ‘Tween those who choose others to fall flat in their own game. Choose your wars, Choose your soldiers. For this is but a game, We are the pawns pit against one another; Locked with useless ebony and ivory keys, To perform for the royal court, yet again.