A Puzzle It Is Poem by Eddie Imonyatt

Of what entails it, the essence that doth give life its worth. And how to beget it, that intricate secret that be like salt upon broth; once lost and bland. Its sprinkle but to make your days, a thing to behold.

A troubling riddle it is, one that sends my thoughts with a swirl, as round my head they move in a curl. And a ponder its roil leaveth in me, its toil to have my chin seek rest, as atop my knuckle it goes.
Could it be well hidden beneath the veil of power, its ecstatic feel left to those that wield. And their joy being the work of a wand, whose wave has the world snug at their feet.

Or perhaps as a whisper it runs, amongst those that dot the sky. Unrivalled their life must be, as it runs awash with a sparkle. Its dazzle that litters yearned by all, as a glimpse of their glitter they so extol.

For is it not in excess, that pleasure has its shelter. And when by the dozen its weight becomes greater, then does its heave become all the more better. For in grandiose a size, do we all like our prize.


Or could it possibly be, much less cryptic a thing, whose guise lays covered, with a rest at our nose’s beneath. For is not simplicity that sits at the apex, of the ever hallowed pyramid of sophistication.