riddle me this

riddle me this
what is both unmeasurable
yet undeniable—
only truth will say,
by its good leave and promise;

listen to the sound of the words you hear
then, try, describe what it is
that gives one word (or one’s word) one meaning
and one just sound just one feeling—

and a riddle is but a just guess,
an idea, righteous fiddling turned true,
so then two can play together;
you won’t feel what I feel but see what I do—

oh yes, rhymes are so primitive;
time is obsolete—
but what is this—what do sounds build aloud:
proud is the man whose bound is his heart,
and subtle is the one who loves him—

and who is he—nothing, an unknown,
but did you doubt what you saw now—
whatever it was you felt; just one word
becomes something else if you say it, say it well—

suddenly a word (or one’s word) can have two meanings;
soft accent, sweet emphasis, honest tone, and timing—
such is the art of love and worship—
the mark of man, worthy, admired alone,
yet for who he is, not what—

and who is terse and who brief,
and who will be thorough and who deep,
who accurate and precise,
most proper and eloquent—

any actor can act; any object can be subject,
every patient can be patient, and receive—
but who can build and collect, never lies
and everything he said is good proof,
huddled, hidden or in the crowds and clouds—

the answer is simpler, than if you could see—
“the question is the answer”; riddled, transitive, pokes holes,
the aim is well rid of all save clarity;
nothing but is and can only be,
so believe something else between you and me lives.

to speak of it is measurement,
though, to not may be to deny it—
but there’s a pattern in your smile,
that might give you some idea—
it waves up and down just the same—