Alarming
The game of chess is so unreal. So undemocratic. Kings and Queens mount a battle simply to protect the former with the latter. Sacrifice is a mundane art and a proxy of witness to the challenging ideal of a win. Owned as much by the spectator as the quick witted victor.
A kind of shallow determination of what lays out policy when the winter will set itself against the spring. In domino courtesy to the falling change of seasons still to come. Though we might set them apart only to glisten at the effect of our unknowing.
As beautiful then as it might seem in game. Like fascination outwitted but brought to a storm of hope. Angry but only in fury at the next move. Which is pardoned of ill will by the suspicious venue of defeat. Always at corners which move angularly toward a victim.
Nothing left to design but politics. After the fact. What comes rushing in that door suspects only a handshake. Yet it could be more as one climbs over another. Into a reach for more. The supposed victory allied with each democratic pause.
Though none may witness this. A third king settled against the posturing of the first two. A new democratic appeal to the wisdom of old foes. Conservative and liberal alike in a fashion of envy. Each vying for power over a disdainful lack of promise seen in the other. Quotes becoming of that which is only enviable then after a fact of promise.
Which as it may be seen in debt to the tutor might still affect a win in game and out of it. Long enough to suppose years will come to gain the normal passage of a vote. If such is not put out of bounds by those who play a bigger game. Wrought with the fascination of what democracy once was in hand. Before such as gave it alarm overstepped the game and the cult of information instead stepped up into republicanism.
An overlord of democracy, perhaps. Something which should have engaged thought with a mechanism to prevent the arid Spring. Too much heat brought to tie over a sentiment which we could now only see in a bargain with information. As it is written to promote the rehabilitation of a country seeming not so great, again.
Although that is hardly the fascination with democracy. Becoming great, again. It is a fascination with power and ability. A friendly determination, if you like. The kind of player who will always assume a win is at the outside of a bet. Short or long, but played against the game of others. A tariff on reasonability. The kind of chance no one wishes to cede to play.
Even as we give it design against the play of Kings, who seem no more. They are perhaps an ally to all that purges of history, instead. Awake at corners still unforgotten to the modern playbook. So much readied to appeal but fraught with disarming passions. Their own caught up in an act of being alarmed.
It is this insecurity, put between words, which sustains the game. An evening at play might suit better than a morning. Because we tend to put circumstance between us, over afternoon. It is enough to give politics a grasp over everything. Though it is not needed, it becomes an alarm. Too soon to be recognized, and thus even the cause of war.
Settled instead are we who would rather watch the game. As we did between Russia and the U.S.A. Neither coming to seem of more or less hope. Only they were vindictive enough to give rise to protection. The sense of it a relief upon the insecurity of others. As we all might like to seem of less alarm.
Still, the Queen must move, or lose to the next pawn advancing. Perhaps it has always been the way. No game of thrones leaves entitlement to an end of story. Only that we might have wished it, differently. Accepting the play of those who would become victors. Long enough to suppose we will be secure, again. Though now me may question it, with too much force.