Comments about John Ode
Praise is sung and bells are rung, to save us from Alone.
Our righteous legion, our children of region, have chosen to condone,
The empty words of men with seeds of reason never sewn.
Men who thought the meek could not hear deception in their tone,
And so we toil beneath the oil where fortune seekers are not known.
In obscurity we dilute the impurities that rot us to the bone.
We hide our face from those who chase the dreams they cannot own,
And hold our tongues when bells are rung to praise the phantom throne.