The Spanish moss hangs from the tree,
A haunting, weeping canopy.
The swamp is thick, the air is still,
Beneath the shadow of the hill.
The porch boards rot beneath my feet,
In this oppressive, summer heat.
A beauty mixed with quiet rot,
A place the modern world forgot.
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 needle spins and will not rest,Upon its brass and polished chest.I’ve lost the North, I’ve lost the...