They are the few that pity me. I am the only one who feels their presence. 4 stagnant pieces with nothing in their hearts on puppeteers above their heads. Four, upright, amongst twenty eight dead on the field. Four antagonizing kings there to taunt me. From the pool I can hear them, but my body tells me I’m drowning.
Their noises are faint. They make strange, new sounds to my forming ears. They fly up and fall down and move through their master’s dirty fingers and fellow pieces and become silent on the board and never cease. This is how they play.
Yet one forgot his reason for being, they’d all joke around all day like animals, each growing louder as they laugh. “kick, kick, Kick” They shout when I cry. They screech.
When I am too excited and too annoyed to keep quiet, when I am a moss covered fetus up against the band of soft, inviting walls. When there is everything left to be born for. Four who kill despite moral intervention. Four who play and don’t forget about me. Four whose only reason is to discard me.