Light. dark. 
A king stripped of comrades.
Opposing forces restricting movement
to two squares. Light, Dark.
Your moves are forced. When it is your turn
you must be thinking...
God only knows.
Meanwhile, see a hostile pawn navigate.
Destined to become a queen, destined
to deliver checkmate.

This is a poem
so there must be some kind of metaphor
kicking about.

As a chessplayer you have the honourable option
to resign. The required gesture
of respect for a fellow player and for yourself.
Please don't persist in some crazy course
wasting time, other's and your own.
Set 'em up again, for our game is 
an ecstatic elaboration of an instantaneous explosion.
A vision of the moment of collision
from an atom smasher, drawn out
over time for our pleasure. 

Why make a spectacle of yourself?
The next supernova is about to blow.