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What beauty do we hold but ourselves,

the life we hold so close to our breast,

that the thought of letting it go pushes us to unimaginable extremes.

Life which we have taken and given,

and our own,

that we hold in a dead mans grip,

only to realise our lives are just a game to the gods.

Watching from their eternal thrones.

They watch us,

our suffering,

our joy,

our love,

our pain.

But they are no audience,


They are the directors,

and we,

we are just the,



bishops, rooks,


and queens.

All players in their never ending game.

In a game of chess played by the gods,

just waiting to fall.

By Anonymous me

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