Title: The Hand That Moves

In the game where shadows dance on the table,
A player sits, both willing and able,
With pieces of life arranged in a row,
Each move a whisper, a tale to bestow.

Yes, death is real, it plays its cruel part,
Removing the playing piece, breaking the heart.
A pawn slips away, a knight fades from sight,
Yet the hand that once moved it remains in the light.

The board may grow barren, the colors may fade,
But the spirit, the essence, cannot be swayed.
For though we may lose what we hold dear and close,
The hand that directed us still proudly boasts.

With fingers entwined in the fabric of fate,
It dances through memories, never too late.
It guides the next move, it...