Riddle One plus riddle Two
is riddle's sum: the riddle Three.
Now riddle four is riddled
for not Ones as You but those as me.
“How am I me? Aren't I
but One?”, I ask to us, puzzledly.
The riddle Two confirms no
plan to puzzle you, hence puzzle we.
The quest of riddles was
not to question but merely pose an all truism.
All truism. All true is
Him. Are They all true? I doubt a lie?
How could I doubt? Been
tried before, accomplished feat again, again.
Again, I riddle. Again, I
plea. Again, I question, insistantly.
Insist I do to You not me
or us as them who question Thee.
The riddle's game is
riddle pain. Prosecution is for blame.
Blame the man who strives
for honor not noticing it's ours to give.
Blame the Truth with
evidences? Us as judges! Where is the proof?
Everywhere it lurks in
hidden text and quiz and hidden life.
Lives that hide what are,
so called, messages proverbial.
They are the answers to
the riddles overtaken, yet we premise
To know so much, then
doubt the same and defend some unknown game.
Defense we make for why we
never see the signs that lead to us.
They come from riddles
ever true just to signify self purpose,
Thus 'tis no answer. 'Tis
no solution. It is what is still we decline
To accept simplicity.
This intimidating mystery.
So where's the joy? Where
is acceptance or the factors of a riddle?
They're not in doubt.
They're not in vain. The answer rests in riddle's Name.
What is the name of the
third Riddle? Is it fermentation's glee?
We trust no challenge that
deters or proves the weaknesses in me.
Weak in absence. Weak in
numbers. To monopolize is our degree.
We take control of
uncontrolled victims in humanity.
Our demand is no response
for favored bliss or happiness
And our pretense is, “We
were tricked with cunning, skillful, dishonesty!”
No honest truth is
manufactured from a riddle that's half empty.
If it's half fact and half
fiction, so is my trust. I'll sell the whole.
I'll buy another, for what
it's worth. For profit's sake it's all the same.
Maybe riddle One does jest
and laugh with angels doing math?
Am I the seller of this
puzzle? Should I invest in skepticism?
Though I would be,
mistakenly, undecided harmony.
Who are the factors of a
riddle that make us bleed digested life?
Digesting chance? Die
hate's romance! Die fate and indirect advance!
Life to the pardoned who
are excused from playing riddle's game.
Though less a game, and
same for fame, it's more an opportunity
To realize and readmit and
then reflect what's requisite
That we address and
readdress the need to fill our emptiness.
Nothing's arcane or
improbable. The Number's speak for Themselves.
They speak for us, the
numbers do, because we can't even on cue.
We've read the lines, seen
testimony, and still we are perplexed
To understand our trace,
our ruin. We've exited the present past,
To live in memories then
die in vain and spite the cause; rancor blame.
Fault we find and found we
have. Denial's place is to accuse.
We've embodied doubt and
cowardice. Severed truthfulness.
Even Truth in mystery.
It's Truth! But we contest.
We test the Fact's
facsimile. We chain Them to the stand.
To understand that we're
above demand. “Release us!”, we command.
If I am not the ruler but
the measure meant,
Will I be identified? In
part? In all? Will I be counted?
If I am not the stock
which death's so greatly invested,
Will I be considered, with
regard, for Life's unending answers?
When my position is lined
with zeros then frightening the sight seems
Cause I've, no doubt, no
loss is Thine's but mine's, the great conundrum!
But I must dispute my
place among the riddles and the questions,
Cause I represent,
quiescent protest with a wail, “Is my life for naught?!”
I cry out for the
numerators who are empty quantities,
But my scream is blank,
like their level of rank, so I hear the Puzzlemasters,
“If we are riddles One
Two Three and still you're not what four?
Then only when you adhere
to us will you increase to more!”
But since I choose, like
all who lose, to settle my own score,
Then I am not One but a
riddle of zero and life is such a bore.
Oh riddle One. Oh riddle
One
Who runs the factory.
The belt conveyer
entangles me.
I'm wrapped in sudden
loss.
Dear riddle Two. The
riddle to
Replace my suffering
From then to now, when
now's forever.
Am I the refugee?
Sweet riddle Three. Sweet
Three. Sweet Three.
Aren't I as sweet as Thee?
When inert logic is
dubious
Mend my insanity.
You riddle four me riddle
for you,
Are we indurate clay?
Withal when all answers
softly lie
Me I'll stump another day.
By Jered Feldman
completed April 2007
