Riddle My Riddle Dear What's On - Poem by Jonathan ROBIN
My first of four now hard, now soft appears,
A part of whole which then may move to tears,
Unmoved before, in mist it disappears,
DEscent rise follows, changes engineers.
My second spins around as satellite
And from land's end scans out to see the light,
Used dust to dust through dust returns to write
DEtailed tale of Man's mistaken might.
My third flaws all that fights its flowing cause,
Assures no pause resists engulfing maws,
Unstintingly draws air without a pause
DEvouring trees, sweet honey bees, and floors.
My fourth blows forth to North, South, East and West,
Arrested never, almost always blessed
Unless its zest unrest spreads, topples nest,
DEstiny's quest jest crests at its behest.
My all spells one whose parts all four include,
And from those parts four further draws fair brood.
Up past, fast forwards by fell Time pursued.
DEpend on it: soon ends rhymed interlude.
My four withdrawn no further four could thrive,
And if one's absent few'd remain alive,
Understanding double riddle, strive
DEcode both four in hand, at hand, band drive.
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