The Riddle

15 July 2006

The Riddle

By Scott Murphy and Jeff Ludlum

My hands reach out with clipped fingers, clutching wildly, grabbing nothing but self consciousness
The certainty I had only a moment ago slipped through my clumsy hands like a brooktrout not ready to be caught.
The primal hunter no more, no longer the with spear or wielding steel
Again and again I become prey, shivering and alone, lost in the woods I thought I knew well.
From wood to wind, soil to dust, shouts to shallow breath,
The granite become sandstone, its content uncertain.
But for me the digging goes on, the hope of unearthing the magic potion entombed for so long.
At my best I claw back the dirt, deeper to the cool dark moistness, knowing that this time “X" marks the spot.
Discovering nothing of the earth, but of the spot deeper in my own red belly
Hollow and aching, the warm and fuzzies of yesterday leaving me only a dim riddle to ponder.

Toppled towers, empires, and a prophet's desire to make me history's fool
"Puzzle me this", he chided with a smirk, sage become specter, my face slowly becomes sanguine with disbelief.
A crowd gathers to see this spectacle
Inside looking out, my skin begins to itch.
I scratch, cutting myself deep, hoping to bleed all that is wise and knowing
And the chuckles and hoots begin.
Self-dismemberment, a public stoning with not a rock
Trait of trust, rock to dust, my confidence falls away and the din grows.
"Death!"
Cowering, shuddering, bloody and bruised, she glimpses up at me, her pained eyes asking "Why?"

This was not fate, this was self-inflicted- an unconscious, numbed, deaf and dumbed decision to carry this slab of stone on my back so long
It was suppose to get lighter with time, this fucking ache was fabled to only last a while.
If only I could read between the lines, solve this riddle or sneak out undercover of a starless sky
The ancient text says that we all face these same mountains that rise up before me, that we only need pause and center to move them.
Not with plow or plunder, not with might or muster
But pen to paper, lyric to tune, love to life can we best fumble along through the darkness, smiling.
The patter of my bare feet as I pick up the pace again, and internal rhythm.
Patience as my tempo evens out, my soles' calluses protect me from pebble and thorn, and I'm no longer torn.
I breathe
Finding certainty and purpose again, with me all along.