Checkmate

Tire of game.
The hand-carved piece,
by start runs at double speed.
I am not a toy Lord.
Is my heart the bishop?
My darting diagonally,
only to return to the start.
Does not the bishop reside by the queen?
But now another piece resides there,
and I am no longer welcome to my home.
So I sit in limbo,
centerboard is no man's land,
a purgatory of dread and fear.
I suppose I'll paint the roses red.
And wait.

Why am I used this way?
Should I assist a pawn in recruitment?
A new member joins the ranks.
And though they rejoice,
am I not hollowed out the more?
Should my past haunt me forever?
Is there no redemption?
No forgiveness?
No reconciliation?
What is one without the others?

I complain as if I deserve something.
So I'll harness the yoke to myself,
for it is lighter,
than what was before.
And keep trudging.
Though we both know,
there is another burden,
which I will always bear,
till you see it fit to fix.

A pawn or a rook, seem easier.
That I could man up on.
But this use you get out of bishop,
it pains me so.
So if you insist,
I'll continue,
though I cannot alone.
I have need to return home,
should you allow me.