riddles

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