Riddle

The Riddle

            The riddle of a mastermind written in a language without a lie, told in the dark without a light, an absolution with no resolution. You can’t resolve that which doesn’t exist, but the riddle is a lie; it fiddles with words and then arise questions.  The dark is a lie for the moon is a light, alive and breathing, seething at being forgotten. And absolution has a solution but you don’t want to hear it, the moon holds it, because dark means no light so the moon, a light, cannot be right.

            I am the moon with words, the hidden light that hurts, but I am also the language with no lie, so the moon I despise. I am an anomaly among familiarity; the greatest truth is a lie. The moon so bright, happens in a time called dark; it ate my flight.

            So the language will continue to have no lies, as long as the moonlight isn’t bright.