I am the tiles beneath your feet, The air you breathe. A door that opens and closes, A laundry line left aloneΒ in the winter months.
I am not for you, Nor are we for anyone else. For I am a rock on a mountain side, A fly in your soup. Nothing more than the dust Swept under a rug. Nothing less, than the clouds In an endless sky.
The life, running through our veins, Runs through all we can see. A bird, a stick, a metal disc. We stand on a level plane.
As a chess piece, I lose to my fellows. For we are all pawns. Or we are all queens.