Question and Answer

From the fierce mustard the scarlet blooms
Bloody ink unfolding in cold clearness
I rank and range the thoughts, points sharp
I loose my words into the air
Wardogs sniffing and prowling
Dark clouds clustered upon the peaks

The calm hangs the quiet hangs
Like a snapped neck swinging and murmurous
This is the smell of silence: flat ozone
The rusted petrichor of a broken hurricane
I ready myself for your riposte

But this time the mushrooms do not bloom, radioactive
And the air is pale without your bruising songs
I taste only an empty bright stillness
The acrid weariness of a thousand wars

What good is my question
If I already abandoned your answer?

Write a poem that is a riddle.

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