There is a place inside you No map has ever traced, a quiet room behind the ribs where light forgets to stay. No one sees it when you smile, No one hears it when you speak. It moves beneath your laughter like a river running deep. It is yours alone to carry, not carved for other hands, a language made of silence Only your soul understands. Some mornings it is heavier, a stone you cannot name, And still you rise and wear your life as if it were the same. But pain, it does not leave you when ignored or pushed away, it waits within the folds of time, it learns you day by day. It is not your enemy, though it cuts without a sound; it is the truth you buried but still lives underground. And yes, there are nights it breaks you, when endurance feels too wide, when even breath feels borrowed And there is nowhere left to hide. Yet somehow you continue, not because you do not fall, but because within the breaking You still answer life’s call. You learn to walk beside it, not beneath it, not above...
They thought the board was simple,
black and white, a quiet war of squares.
They moved with smug precision,
fingers light with borrowed flair.
A pawn, they thought, stood trembling,
small and slow and easy prey.
“A fool across the table,”
Their confident eyes would say.
They nudged their pieces forward,
with laughter in their breath,
not seeing silent footsteps
being laid beneath their chess.
Across the board, a smile appeared,
gentle, calm, and thin,
the kind that hides a thousand plans
patiently waiting within.
A bishop slid unnoticed,
a knight curved through the air,
each move a whispered secret
They were far too proud to hear.
Still, they grinned at every turn,
certain they had won,
never feeling karma’s shadow
creeping square by square, undone.
Then silence filled the board at last.
The smile remained the same.
One final piece stepped softly forward—
and ended the game.
No anger in the victory,
No thunder in the mate.
Just two quiet words lay neatly down:
Checkmate.
Your plate.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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