The needle spins and will not rest,
Upon its brass and polished chest.
I’ve lost the North, I’ve lost the way,
Inside the fog of yesterday.
I wander through the pathless wood,
As only a weary traveler should.
A journey with no certain end,
Around the river’s winding bend.
Ethan blends Southern gothic themes with the lyrical cadence of acoustic music. His poetry is dusty, raw, and full of character, often telling the stories of wanderers, broken hearts, and the long, lonely stretches of...
The white lines stretch into the heat,Where asphalt and the desert meet.The radio plays a scratchy blues,To help...
The Spanish moss hangs from the tree,A haunting, weeping canopy.The swamp is thick, the air is still,Beneath the...