Quietus.

A misnomer in reckoning, so subtly demeaning;
Architect to the tale, her story to regale.
Diction in introspection, to a miniscule section;
Willingly, she's unclear, in helpless insomnia.

Syntax filled with quotes, she shifts back and forth;
Tragedy loses the rest, she speaks with disinterest.
The anchor soon runs riot, lying pale in disquiet;
Placid at her own rate, disposition thats sedate.

She musters the strength, to discuss those events;
That mean not much to me, yet I'd listen quietly.
Her story is slow as chess, a damsel in distress;
My reaction to her scent, never was a consort so eloquent.

A bit efferent despite, what may numb delight;
I muster some sense, stalemate ends in offense.
Becomes bathed to rid, unsettled and insipid;
No novelty in telling, the story thats selling.

Prosaic and affably quaint, she tends to repeat again;
Nonchalance in vain, a sentient picture she paints.
My dutiful movement aside, she still lies beside;
Her speed appears to slows, as she clambers below.

Now, in defining sudden gasps, she speaks;
Sodden since evening, I stare in eerie disbelief.
Lifelessness I'll heave, of the conte she weaved;
Her lips dry and fade, faint in mutual disrespect.

I offer suggestion, deadpan with grim expression;
Moistening her purple chin, I intrude deeper within.
Last few words in fact, help slip wooden this final act;
Becoming finally innate, she whispers 'checkmate'.