From an early age, they taught you –
even as you taught yourself –
garnished heaps of raw, innate talent with spoonfuls
of technique,
bolstered preternatural skill by demonstrating dozens
of different openings
and gambits 
and tactics 
and maneuvers that made more sense to you than to them –
so that your obvious primacy would flourish 
and hapless competitors would feel, across the table, the kindled heat 
of your dominance,
would bend to your will like brittle grass before the blaze. 

In this faith, you grew
in favor with masters and mentees alike,
your purpose in this world defined by single word –
WIN –
the line between success and failure as imperceptible as
spider’s silk upon your flushed cheeks,
clinging to you
trailing after you,
weaving around you while you slept
and dreamed of stratagems and schemes and faceless contenders
staggering in the slipstream of your impetus.
You awoke with creases on your cheeks.

What is it, then, that occasions a champion’s turn from trophies?
What inclines a lion to spurn his kingdom’s killing fields?
Why did you abandon the path, cast off your calling?
Look upon the opposition –
the perspiring brows,
ears tipped scarlet,
throats bulging, divulging defeat –
read the proofs of your righteousness in the creases of their despair,
but then, by all means, look away!
Remembering them only muddles the mind before
the next contest.  

Is that what happened, young maven?
Was the door of your memory left unlatched?
Compassion’s curse clouded your vision, 
the smog of sympathy wedged its foot in the jam.
Was the love you lost merely misplaced like luggage 
or shed like a tooth?
Alas! Deific distinction disowned like a half-finished highway.
Now what are you?
Nothing but a rusted, unremembered blade. 
Another nobody among the crowd.