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Price of Victory
She sits for hours in the stifling heat,
sifting through memories of ebony and ivory,
setting up her win many moves in advance
Her sister sits across the board,
hesitant and frustrated, anger simmering unnoticed. She
hunts for any chance to get ahead
Enter the checkmate:
expected from the eldest but world
ending to the younger
Lost in her victory, she smiles at you.
Oblivious to the loathing eyes of her sister.
Silently an open palm is raised, pale fingers cut from stone.
Too late to stop the slap
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An Ekphrastic poem on The Chess Game