Stratego

You walk down the hall.
Swaying your hips slightly, convincing yourself that you're the least bit attractive.
I know, that sounds bad.
You turn your head, your eyes are pinched as you look far into the distance.
The farther you look out, the more you see inside.
You barely see past the hallway wall.

Your sword is your shield.
No one dares oppose you for
they have seen the ruins of those who have,
but you just smile.
Flanked by the ever loyal nonthinkers and
A traitor.
Nice to meet you.

Clocks tick.
Copper turns green.
Leaves grow, crisp, and descend.
Red meets blue.
Yet, blue never meets red.
And you think it never will.
So did Trotsky.

But he plots in the dead of night, his eyes become sore and
his neck, wrung and tired as his
coup starts to grow arms,
legs, necks, feet, loyalty, betrayal.
So, when he comes around, you
don't even notice.
No.
Not yet.

Ah, but you will. Your regime
will fall, your trusted companions
along with it.
But for now, you are content to sway your hips
and pretend like your mask isn't totally transparent.

You wait.
No one buys your crap
anymore.
I'm not a follower.
Blue will meet red.
Soon.