An ode to a thing that is so wrong is an ode to a thing that has lasted so long.
What could this thing be that cannot be ever broken?
Eternally dwelling in the crevices of a million dark moments like a token.
Yet no one having taken notice will ever to give a word, never to be spoken.
 
Is it a wish, a delight, or some type of torturous device?
Does it take hold of you and seizing you like a vice?
Cemented indefinitely as though planted by a plan.
What can one do but settle in and give in to the man.
 
A cyclical trace has been tracked through time.
Like a 19th Century unsolved London crime.
It does not deny what it is, no it admits.
Still we find ourselves tangled up in it’s enchantment in fits.
 
No, not I, I still remain and resist.
For I have never been one to give into this midnight tryst.
I alone stand forth ready to sound the horn.
As evil ones pass out last year’s uneaten devil spawned candy corn.

Respectfully Much

Ronovan

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