Everyone is a simply a piece on a chessboard.
Some people are new and fancy,
gentle morning rays peeking through their stained glass.
Others are old and tired,
dusty and covered in scratches,
worn down by the weight of time.
and some are in between,
scratches running across their minuscule bodies,
coated carefully with thin flaking paint.
But in the end, it doesn't matter,
if you are new or old,
fresh or dusty,
fancy or ruined,
because in the end,
we are all still pieces on a chessboard.
And to win the game,
you need every piece.
YOU ARE READING
Oleander-COMPLETED
PuisiALL RIGHTS RESERVED Her words were like oleander flowers, so delicate, like a gossamer spider string, but poisonous, like her scarred, despondent heart. *in other words, my crap poetry that is still really important to me*
