My riddle written in pentameter,
five stressed and five unstressed will make it ten.
So Keats did love its use; parameters
as quick, emotive power to it bends.
Some English folk partake of this fine song.
Behooves The Bard to write about such trends:
To marriage of true minds his work belongs
and to his summer’s day expend your gloves.
If this fine mystery be error proved,
He never writ, and we were never loved.
In keeping with the mysterious quality of the number 13, today I challenge you to write a riddle poem. This poem should describe something without ever naming it. Perhaps each line could be a different metaphor for the same object? Maybe the title of the poem can be the “answer” to the riddle.