The Eyes of Iris
You stand on the chessboard alone, a queen without a king,
And your warriors only blindly march to a different beat across tiles of grey,
With no black and white to shape you into right or wrong, singing a song
Of solemn, sick, wicked, wasteful, unworthy and unwanted defilement and dismay.
Because the game’s already lost, and you’re left on the battlefield
With scarcity, piety and impiety, sublime with the divine and devils
Calling you disheveled, leveled in space and time to seduce
Toward all the wrong moves made at the hangman’s noose.
You are not to blame, my queen, but the war will not end —
Not yet, for you have a new piece on the board, one stronger to mend
All the wounds, scars, breaks in the skin, blotches of red on tear-streaked faces,
Cries, lies, prying eyes, to label you a stigma of brazen Hail Mary’s
And longshots in bloodshot skies, trying to make peace and escape —
Coping with everything from drugs, alcohol, sneers, jolts, rape,
The tape around the house, clowns to get away from — Some fun.
You just need to break away, because this isn’t simply a game of inches anymore,
And you’re certainly not the stereotypical piece-of-meat game called a whore,
But something more, and you deserve to have all that life has in store.
So what — or who — is the new piece on your side to electrify
You? She was born of you, carrying the exact same strength, too.
Draw from her the powers to storm the stadium and the towers, keep close eye,
Like hobbits and birds of prey do, as the rebellion and stubbornness
Keep you steady in the course to resist the taming of the shrew.
Because the truth is in this wisdom — you don’t need a king at all.
Maybe these squares have dissolved, and it’s all just a charcoal grey mess.
But this you must confess to fall to your knees as you gaze into her eyes
And realize that you are not alone on this blurred battlefield,
And you will inevitably win this great game of chess.
