Checkmate
you're out of time.
you're left no choice.
without a face,
without a voice,
my crafted ions wend their way
across the circuit boards
we play.
devoid of sight, and sound,
and sense,
you proceed from flawed past tense,
ill logic born of mirror worlds
where brides wear black
and onyx pearls.
vengeful specter brought to life
through driving quest
consumes your life;
and all you think
you understand
as pieces fall
into my hand.
©1999 Elizabeth Hebert
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