City of Chess

Through the grid I roam, tarnished business suit enfolding the chances, lost in thought, found in finance, sulking under tall buildings built chess pieces, the foggy rain shrouding their faces, imperialist hierarchy of the mercantile pandemic. Many pawns are we, limited in movement, sacrificed by probability yet capable of slaying an overshadowing superior. The briefcase keeps pace with unhinged knees that stumble down the streets seeking that serene space and a locked studio all my own, bound for another lonely evening amongst all the bustling nightlife the way I sat alone during lunch time at school, which was always the hardest part of being in Hell. Down they look on me, the ivory towers that commerce constructed, Knight to keep me immobile, Bishops to pontificate the moral apparatus, Rooks that attack when any escape from poverty opens on the path. Maneuvering down dusty alleys where the homeless slain keep me company from the possibility of it being worse, of the Queen disowning me or the King evicting me without even realizing they are the ones I've served, and even more oblivious to the player beyond the city, the God who trapped us in our rules for its own amusement. Down the streets I wander, another day another dollar, starless heart that binds my collar, leashed by a posterior skyline, standing taller, unknown forces rendering me smaller, smaller, smaller, until I finally falter, lose the dollar, become a crawler, a disillusioned scholar.