Imagine a chessboard.
The white clan.
The white queen.
Spic and span.
Spots, can't be unseen.
Amongst the white sheet, there were the centre spots.
You shouldn't miss the spots.
You couldn't miss the spots.
They beat snow white by a lot.
Let's not ponder over the spots.
Let's not talk about beauty today.
Ones on the face, under the eye slots.
Her demeanour lacked them.
No mayday.
The white knight, fearless and frayed.
The colleagues needed no pain.
They were spotless. An absence of dread.
Ah! Those ‘imperfect’ spots again.
Winston Leonard Spencer Churchill.
The scripted man, not so bovine.
A spotted puffer without the gill.
You spotted the chink and let it shine.
When I was a kid, I was told by my mentor,
“You write for a human, not the centre.
It's not about the blacks, nor about the white helm.
If you want to prose them, you have to love them.
YOU ARE READING
The Good place
PoetryThis is a collection of all the poems I've written about everything I'm curious about and more. Literal pitstop is the pen name I write under on WordPress and Instagram.
