The Riddler

Is in sickly control.
His enigmatic energy a frightening and pervading force.
His jokes are answered with my swallows.
One two three a split through me.
He jerks my mind on an easy string.

In candid dance he taps across my nerves
Lucifer's play.
Dealing me a wicked hand, his meanings are under the table.
His being is intensely infinite.
A puzzle whose pieces fit my death.

White gloved fingers meddle in my thoughts,
Tampering with my brain and gambling with my fate.
The riddler is elastic,
He turns and spins me about in whirring direction.
He is many, he is none.
He is in elusive move.
He undoes my brain like a lace, bargaining and juggling with my soul.
A white scream with thin penciled lips
And a polka that waves about and pounds my brain in crazy stamp.
Tormented, so tormented, I hate the joker
And want to peal away his ambiguous smirk, stitch his face and
- He heard me, but I didn't speak, did I?
He is in my thoughts.
The chatter of dice, face tumble, rolling my sentence.

He grins in chilling answer.
A menacing click, a white powdered wink,
He wields and wanes recklessly tossing logic with a
Hallucinatory laugh in sinister echo.
A smile, snitch, the snap of satan's fingers,
He is not a riddler but a sensation
Spun around me in a thick and heavy web.
He is above me, beside me, in me.
Escape is a tease.

The answer to the riddler is smeared in his jest.
I have lost the game, out maneuvered.
My death the riddler's prize.
Who is the riddle?