CHECKMATE

By Vera Von Monika

Silence moves first.
Not the hands,
not the voice,
the pause.

The board stretches wide,
a kingdom of black and white,
where pawns march,
knights carve arcs,
bishops slice diagonals,
rooks sweep corridors of thought,
queens command the light.

Every piece obeys a law
etched into the grid.
Every square holds potential,
every shadow,
consequence.

I do not announce intention.
I do not hasten the play.
I measure each move,
count each beat,
predict the fractures
before they can appear.

The king stands rigid,
aware
that every advance,
every retreat,
has already been anticipated.
Every trap laid,
every path mapped,
each decision inevitable.

Rooks collide with quiet force,
bishops glide like whispers,
knights leap through angles unseen,
pawns fall with disciplined certainty,
queens shine with calculated power.

No haste.
No chaos.
Only the geometry of control,
the architecture of thought,
the symphony of inevitability.

When the board empties,
no celebration,
no collapse,
only the absolute clarity
that every move was mine,
every outcome certain.

Checkmate.
The game was never in doubt.
The victory was always in the plan.

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