In the corner

(Where the two walls-

One a beige tone,

The other a darker shade of gray-

Meet in a splendid

Clash of Titans)

There sits a chessboard.

A perfect, glass chessboard,

Filled with black and white-gray wonder

So beautiful, paradisiacal, flawless

Each piece impeccably carved and fashioned

Into a model;

So innocent,

Still full of hope.

But that naivety

Will die in desperation one day.

Is it not nicer to crush them now?

To send them crashing at this moment,

Rather than forcing them to

Perform their dance

In the never-ending battle

Of dark and light?

Would it not be kinder

Than giving them hope

Only to dash it at the end?

Perhaps I should take each piece

And shatter it on the linoleum,

Watching it fall into

Thousands of jagged pieces,

No longer as innocent as the perfect chessmen

They once belonged to.

So I pick up the nearest piece-

A king, how fitting.

After all, it is that piece for which

All the others fight hopelessly-

Why should it be innocent and beautiful

While the world decays around it?

For a moment it twirls

Between my fingers,

Catching the ray of light

That seeps in through the crack

At the bottom of the door.

But in the next second,

It is caught between my hand

And the floor,

No longer the innocent king,

Now many serrated edges

Which cut into my palms, my fingers,

My wrists.

At least now

Its innocence will not mock me.

I know now

It was always terrible-

Made up of death-

So I did not destroy true innocence at all-

For its charlatan innocence was only a Masque

That hid the desire for Red Death within.