Rapidly writing
his ragged riddles
he giggles
and flips furiously
through his pad
Glad to be in his element
weaving his meanings
out of their words
hides dead drop spikes
and microfiche behind his verbs
Slice him open he bleeds
black and white
like ink and computer screens
The Enigma becomes a riddle to himself
lost in the context of his own twisted reality
he falls into his own textual mazes
and is enslaved, as a hologram,
a nightmare, or three,
the happy family
and the RaceCyst
Scarecrow stands silent
stealthily concealed behind a simile.
I observe
the Riddler weaving word nets
and lines of buried treasure truth
commandeered from the pits of shared despair
The Riddler knows what evil lurks in the deepest black,
even now he is giggling at the thought of it.