The Man Who Played
- Sommer
- Jul 7, 2025
- 1 min read
He moved with intent, not finesse or delight,
trading silence for power, and truth for slight.
A master of pieces, of shadows and strain,
he played for control, not for heart, not for name.
Behind him, trophies of dust-laden lore,
relics of battles long blurred by the score.
He smirked like a victor who’d studied the rules,
never noticing time rewrites them for fools.
He captured the Queen, but in some other tale,
where fate wore a mask and hearts were for sale.
The one he once saw, wild, unclaimed,
was lost in a game that forgot her name.
His mind was a maze of mirrors and doubt,
each move a defense, each draw a route.
He played against wind, against rumor and ghost,
against all that love requires most.
And still, the board waits, a story half-told,
black, white, and gray, grown brittle and cold.
He sits with his echoes, a player of might,
who won what he could, but not what was right.
