A knight, shining armor, a mirror to a pawn right in front—

Short, stuck, a reflecting cage.

A path unseen, but open to a bishop or a queen:

The simplest piece, not worth being killed,

Not a part of the set, just collateral,

Until a last square,

You turn, an anomaly, when they see.

But you are still a queen to protect the king of disability—

Eight squares and the keys to "his majesty."

Can't kill under pressure, oh no;

To be saved, a damsel in distress shielded by the queen who pays.

The whole board is a sacrifice for a castle,

Disassembled, when a rook cannot think straight and jumps to save.

No rules for a king.

The bishop can't look in the eye, he goes diagonally.

A chess game: good old bureaucracy.