Round One

when something brittle plays the game

their scars become opponents

threatening to cut the gauze

where precious skin was broken.

when something used takes their turn

how but they feel a waste

stripped clean of their identity

with nothing left to take.

when something havened rolls the die

inept to discern numbers

their shelter fortified in time

is only bound to crumble.

when something sorrowed moves their piece

their hand quivers with woe

with inkling that of all these spaces

they have nowhere to go.

Author's Note

any feedback is welcome and very much appreciated :)

Reviews

[Misery]

I like this intriguing little poem of damaged lives and life's dangerous games. Another display of your depth and creativity. Nicely done, dear poet.