Grimelda The Ghost

The riddler calls to me in envelopes and weaves,
I can't quite put my finger on it.

Yet still, he tethers spins and whirls,
What must have I forgotten?

Beyond the corridor of what hangs on that arched
moss-entwined church door in May.
 
I still haven't confessed:
....the spindle ,Rumplestiltskin twined with hay
Amber locks of golden hues
all Merrily askewed
 
On to which is right, or which is nought.
Ye will never know,
and they shall never tell,
come one come all...
...into HELL!