I exist as a song and a plant, but I am not just something pretty but a snack too. You might find me in a Vincent Van Gogh painting.

Wrapped tight in ancient threads, preserved in time, long dead. Stirring slow with silent feet, on Halloween night, I creep and greet. What monster am I, bound so tight, a spooky figure in the night?

Born of pride, fed by fear. I end all songs when I draw near, I leave behind both ash and tear.

I ever hang over the throne where you sit, forced there by flattery and lack of wit. I embody the perils of power without peer; a crown may bring glory, but ever with fear. My edge is keen; my promise is true. Name me, who hangs by a hair above you.

I was born in ancient times, I endure in these days. A horse once accompanied me, before other ways. I can be alone, but four is most sound Man travels with me, for I am too round.