A whitespace hangs above me,
Like a glistening sheet of snow,
A masterpiece of creation,
Meaning nothing and everything!
The science of it is but distraction,
A whimsy for my entertainment,
Drawing snickers of self-aggrandizement,
For I am only a piece in a game.
On any day the whitespace can change,
As a new player joins the game,
A player of lies and misdirection,
An empty vessel of disruptive temptation.
The black piece coerces bad choices,
With fragrant, sparkly baubles,
Laying mouse cheese on every square,
To snap, trap me in his burrow.
January 10, 2023
Ronald Whetsell's Creative Writing and Poetry Blog 