No answers, just questions
Probes, like spiders, climbing
one wall, then another
until all possibilities have been touched
Questions, most faint shooting stars
burning out before finding answers
Truth, last thing to come of questions
Answers, but questions turned inside out
Riddles fill holes left by lies
Sometimes thinking they are answers
Upon reflection we see
they too are spiders
Word play, perhaps
Some call it poetry
Others see sheer entertainment
Me? Just more spiders spinning webs
Poetic Alchemist 