Decided to write a new sestina using 6 randomly generated words in a word generator. Wanted to challenge myself. This is what I came up with.
The Florist
We are but pieces on the board in this game of chess;
Our maker's mark is kept concealed by black gloves.
We are born of his mind and never free of his hand,
Which always looms in the dark of the theatre,
Arranging us in formation as if He were a florist;
His living bouquet tied as tight as a quiver of arrows.
Upon this battlefield of life he slings down arrows,
Whose points pierce and shred the pawns of chess
Like the roots of flowers being planted in soil by a florist.
Their thorns could never hope to shred his gloves;
He saves our bloodshed for the stage of the theatre,
Where everything is directed only by His hand.
Yet with a wave of the same merciless hand,
Time bends and speeds by like arching arrows;
And in the shadows of the darkened theatre
Begins yet another game of cosmic chess.
Stars fall from existence as He removes His gloves
And plunges His hand into the soil, a holy florist
Who has lopped us off at the stem, as a true florist
Would a rose. Our thorns have driven into His hand;
He was foolish enough to remove His gloves.
The sting is like that of a thousand arrows,
For the created have become the King in chess
And the shouts of fire now echo through the theatre.
Still the actors do their dance, there is no stopping theatre;
The flowers are still growing despite the florist,
Who has since abandoned this game of chess.
We are no longer kept safe by His hand;
The sky is darkened with a cloud of arrows,
Slipping from the heavens like fingers into gloves.
The blood that still stains His weathered gloves
Stands as stark as lights in a darkened theatre;
We are nothing more than His sheathed arrows,
Buried deep with faith like the seeds of the florist.
And ultimately it will be His corporeal hand
That calls checkmate in this game of existential chess.
Thirty two pieces on the board in chess;
Warriors who have all taken up the gloves;
Foolish men brimming with naivete, guns in hand,
Who live only for the war scenes in theatre.
Blood has become the fertilizer of the florist
As he buries the millions of men full of arrows.
The Florist
We are but pieces on the board in this game of chess;
Our maker's mark is kept concealed by black gloves.
We are born of his mind and never free of his hand,
Which always looms in the dark of the theatre,
Arranging us in formation as if He were a florist;
His living bouquet tied as tight as a quiver of arrows.
Upon this battlefield of life he slings down arrows,
Whose points pierce and shred the pawns of chess
Like the roots of flowers being planted in soil by a florist.
Their thorns could never hope to shred his gloves;
He saves our bloodshed for the stage of the theatre,
Where everything is directed only by His hand.
Yet with a wave of the same merciless hand,
Time bends and speeds by like arching arrows;
And in the shadows of the darkened theatre
Begins yet another game of cosmic chess.
Stars fall from existence as He removes His gloves
And plunges His hand into the soil, a holy florist
Who has lopped us off at the stem, as a true florist
Would a rose. Our thorns have driven into His hand;
He was foolish enough to remove His gloves.
The sting is like that of a thousand arrows,
For the created have become the King in chess
And the shouts of fire now echo through the theatre.
Still the actors do their dance, there is no stopping theatre;
The flowers are still growing despite the florist,
Who has since abandoned this game of chess.
We are no longer kept safe by His hand;
The sky is darkened with a cloud of arrows,
Slipping from the heavens like fingers into gloves.
The blood that still stains His weathered gloves
Stands as stark as lights in a darkened theatre;
We are nothing more than His sheathed arrows,
Buried deep with faith like the seeds of the florist.
And ultimately it will be His corporeal hand
That calls checkmate in this game of existential chess.
Thirty two pieces on the board in chess;
Warriors who have all taken up the gloves;
Foolish men brimming with naivete, guns in hand,
Who live only for the war scenes in theatre.
Blood has become the fertilizer of the florist
As he buries the millions of men full of arrows.
![[Image: ww16xw.png]](https://i53.tinypic.com/ww16xw.png)
