The Scales face me.
The omnipotent judge studying the gavel of life and death,
Like a favoured toy.
‘Even if. . .’
We sit,
Towering above earth and air,
As land and living offer themselves,
Obliviously,
To this futile game of chess and despair.
‘Even if. . .’
One pawn to a kingdom.
One life faces off a vast void
As I study the arm of gold duelling with that of rust-crusted iron.
A game of blood weight.
And I wait.
My blood weight.
A weight for stillness.
A weight for gravity to freeze in a verdict of icy cold immobilisation.
‘Even if. . .’
Success, Failure, Hope and Doubt.
These, mere slaves to this metallic communion of calculations,
Rational measurements in a ritual of cold icy numbers,
Enough to make muscles fire.
Its voice is calm,
Confident in its purpose:
A tap scratch, tug at my fear.
‘Even if. . .’