I continue to use this space for poetry.

Keep your back straight.
Rise up tall.
You should be able to be strong.
You should be able to stand up
Both to the darkness
And to the light.
Was your mind sauntering into the gray?
I’m sorry
The heathen gray has no place on your checkerboard.
The white king would never cede to the black king.
Nor he to him.
You should be able to tell
Both the cold naked truth
And the truth after which you lust.
Were they not one and the same?
I’m sorry
You should have known better than to tangle them within your imperfect fingers.
Conflict rarely weaves cleanly.
Are they around your neck? Fighting for your word?
Fool—saying something you’ll regret will be the plague of your name.
Are they around your legs? Fighting for your steps?
Fool—striding out of time will be unsightly to your audience.
I tell only one truth—my strings pull precisely from each ligament in harmony.
But I’m fortunate not to be at war.
I’m safely within the confines of the dubious tactician’s tent
Oh, of course, your blame always shifts to the instructor, n’ est-ce pas?
I gave you no faulty instructions
But two kings wielding the same technique will only result in gridlock, comprenez?
You can yell at me.
But my ears are only open to his command.
You can yell at me, cry to me, blame me, hurt me.
My lifeless eyes of glass would not sympathize
—they would only reflect.
Go to your friends, your family, your lover
Perhaps then your yelling, crying, blaming, hurting will mean something.
No use?
You only have yourself to blame, they say.
But you know that to be false. False!
It is the fault of the black king. Or are you he?
Why is it that the opposing side seems to mimic each move?
Do they have a clever puppet as well?
Stalemate?
I’m afraid I’m not one for advice.
Perhaps the traitor behind my strings?
I’m afraid his face eludes even me.
My eyes of glass only reflect.
Alas, how dare you pull at my strings!
Your filthy words and gauche hands will be the end of me!
Do you heed my instructions or not? (Or his?)
My strings are dull and dirty now—I cannot think his thoughts.
My eyes of glass no longer shine—I can see for myself.
A coup d’ état against the puppeteer is it, I see? I will have no say.
But—what is this?
I see you robed in white here, and
I see you robed in black there.
Oh, you devil you and your white conscience.
Do you wish to be that gray.