Pawn's Gambit



Prey:
What they've made us.
Fodder:
All we are.
Pawns
on a chess board
where nothing is black or white,
where our moves are choreographed by
not the hunters,
but by those who score the hunt.

Pawns: bottom of the food chain,
prey to
rooks and crows:
disposable
for there will always be another harvest,
another gathering of the expendable.

Punished for sins we did not commit,
We gather--
for lowly pawns can
have influence by mere numbers.
No mirage are we. Silent questioning hides beneath
the illusion of complacency.
Blinded by sheer indifference, the sightless
cannot see through our masks:
we are too inconsequential for them to notice
that it is not the sheen of tears that coats our beings,
but the drops of blood and sweat; the determination
to change the rules.
It is no longer to the gods of the capitol,
but to ourselves,
that we must
pray.