Nixak's Half A Million Scrap Riddle - Last one for 2025

[Nixak]

A smaller prize, a quieter fate,
Five hundred thousand in a modest crate.
No lights, no fanfare, none to celebrate,
Just silent value sealed in wait.

Begin where stories lose their pace,
Where heroes pause mid-chase and race.
Suspended in a holding space,
A moment stretched, but left in place.

The air behaves, but won’t explain,
It holds its breath and stays the same.
No drip, no echo, none complain,
Yet stillness plays a clever game.

Previously some chased the sky, convinced they knew,
Ask ThomasRET, he flew there too.
An Icarus thought, exciting, new,
It felt so right … until it flew.

Not far from where the heavens mar,
Old echoes drifting from afar.
Close enough felt, yet not bizarre,
On ground that tempts you where you are.

The map agrees, the numbers fit,
You’ll swear the answer clicks, that’s it.
Where letters count to ten, then dip,
And numbers stop at half a trip.

[Nixak]

Just for my favourite fan 

Sean_Rendo groans the moment riddles land,
Calls them vague, complains they’re poorly planned.
Swears he hates them, says they’re all a mess,
Yet they live rent-free inside his head ... confess.
He reads each line, critiques with passion true,
For someone who “doesn’t care”… he really, really do.

[Nixak]

Sean Rendo swore I couldn’t hide,
Declared these riddles “trash” with pride.
Yet here I sit, still never seen,
So you get one more verse,  thanks to him.

I wait where breath forgets to leave,
Where patience matters more than greed.
I feel the world slow, thin, and tight,
As if the day refused the night.

I was not buried, yet I’m kept,
By walls that listen while you step.
The air stands still, the silence stays,
No drip to count the passing days.

I hear the thunder never aimed,
The sky once burned, the ground was named.
Close enough that ash still knows,
Far enough that quiet grows.

Some read the land, then read again,
Where letters finish counting ten.
They stop too soon, they look too late,
At numbers halved before their fate.

I like the cold that isn’t shown,
The kind you feel inside the stone.
No frostbite kiss, no blizzard’s roar,
Just borrowed breath and nothing more.

I won’t be moved when calendars turn,
I won’t be found when pages burn.
When midnight makes the year reset,
I break with all you didn’t get.

So stand, decide, and trust your ground,
I won’t cry out, I won’t be found.
I wait, I end, I never stay…
The wipe takes me on New Year’s Day.

Edited yesterday at 03:19 PM by Nixak