Like So Much Clockwork

There beats time inside us all,
transcending the biological,
shaming the irregular.
Military precision and constant revision,
we feel a need to leave our own

Bodies, trapped upon checkered squares,
cautious advance two steps into the future,
the king, the bishop, the knights, us soldiers
fighting an intense war of full resistance,
while our masters with their full-sized palms,
call for rallies and wrongful invasions,
with so much blood, with so much gore...

...And it's our own, we spilled and kicked the bucket.
If it's made of steel it'll make an awful sound,
much like the ringing,
as the loaded spring is unwound.
We teeter-totter at the edge,
with our eyes full of resigned debate.
It's like our very fate is sealed,
as we struggle to break that very seal.
Like futile attempts at expressing emotions,
like futile attempts at maintaining devotion.

If our mechanism was to chatter one last time,
we would lay dead, no one to our aid.
I guess that ignorance really is bliss,
the kiss of innocence still planted,
but then I choose to punch you on the nose,
hoping to wake you,
And alert you to our monotonous footsteps,
like so much clockwork.