He walked in a black suit,
Black tie, and tattoos,
Quiet yet commanding,
In laws only he pursues.
He is the Bishop.
The master of his own altar.
Striking like a whisper from blind corners,
On black squares, dark and diagonal from afar.
And the pawns can’t help but bow,
While the horses fall back from his silent attacks.
He is a blade forged in the dark.
He is the tattooed Man in black.
P.s. for the godson from the South