Overture To Carnage

(instrumental)

No Saints In The Hollow

The trees don’t whisper, they just watch,
Their shadows stretched across the stone.
The river don’t flow, it just sways like a ghost,
Carrying names that no one owns.

I walk the road where the preachers fell,
Where rust eats the chapel doors.
The hymns still hang in the rafters dry,
But they don’t mean nothing no more.

No saints in the hollow, No light past the hill.
If you hear your name in the wind tonight,
Better stand real still.

The lantern flickers, but won’t burn long,
The oil’s been gone for years.
The headstones lean like drunken men,
Too tired to hold back their fears.

Footsteps drag through the old dry fields,
But no one’s walked here since the flood.
Some men go missing, some come back wrong,
And some just turn into mud.

No saints in the hollow, No light past the hill.
If the crows stop singing before the dawn,
You’d best write your will.

The house still stands, though it don’t breathe,
Ain’t had a fire in fifty years.
But some nights I swear, I see someone inside,
And I swear they see me clear.

No saints in the hollow, No light past the hill.
If you hear your name in the wind tonight,
Better stand real still.

Six Feet & Falling

The ground should hold me, keep me still,
Nails press deep in rotted wood.
I hear the roots, I hear the worms,
But nothing holds me like it should.

A breath that lingers where none should be,
Fingers pressing through the weeds.
The weight of time is breaking thin,
I feel the cracks—I’m caving in.

Six feet and falling, Deeper than the sky.
Six feet and falling, But I won’t stay inside.

They laid me down, they spoke my name,
Their voices faded, walked away.
Now moss has claimed the etched-out stone,
But something here won’t let me stay.

A breath that lingers where none should be,
Fingers pressing through the weeds.
The weight of time is breaking thin,
I feel the cracks—I’m caving in.

Six feet and falling, Deeper than the sky.
Six feet and falling, But I won’t stay inside.

Hands of dirt, hands of stone,
Pull me back, drag me home.
I was lost, I was named,
I was buried just the same.

I hear voices—do they know?
Something stirs where flowers grow.
Are they calling, do they see?
Or am I just a memory?

Six feet and falling, Deeper than the sky.
Six feet and falling, But I won’t stay inside.

Blood On The Wedding Dress

The church bells rang on a golden noon,
White lace trailed like a silver moon.
The guests all gathered, the roses spread,
But the groom, he never left his bed.

Her veil was light as a summer breeze,
Her hands were trembling at her knees.
But love don’t wait, and time won’t tell,
How fast a promise turns to hell.

Blood on the wedding dress,
Stains like vows that won’t confess.
A crimson thread, a broken sigh,
She walked the aisle, but not alive.

She climbed the stairs where he lay still,
A glass of bourbon on the sill.
Her ring shone bright on a trembling hand,
Her breath as sharp as shattered glass.

She touched his face, as pale as bone,
His lips were cold, his eyes were gone.
The preacher knocked, but no one spoke,
And silence wrapped them both in smoke.

Blood on the wedding dress,
Stains like vows that won’t confess.
A crimson thread, a broken sigh,
She walked the aisle, but not alive.

They buried him where the lilies grow,
Laid him down in a suit of woe.
And she was found in candlelight,
A pistol spent, a gown snow-white.

Some say he drank, some say he lied,
Some say the devil danced inside.
But in the end, no one can know,
Why love would bloom just to let go.

The veil still waits in the old oak chest,
The lace still smells of lilac death.
But in the dark where silence dwells,
The ghosts still waltz inside their hell.

Blood on the wedding dress,
Stains like vows that won’t confess.
A crimson thread, a broken sigh,
She walked the aisle, but not alive.

Last Bell Parish

The first time I saw it, the trees held their breath,
A house of old bones where the sun feared to set.
Shutters like eyelids, doors yawning wide,
No wind, no birds, just the hush of the tide.
They say it was built by a man with no past,
With hands full of dust and a name made of ash.
A woman stood with him, thin as a flame,
But no one remembers the sound of her name.

Oh, the house that swallowed the sun,
Where time don’t run, where voices fade.
You can knock, you can call, but the door stands tall,
And the road won’t show the way.

The preacher rode past it but never looked twice,
Said some doors ain’t meant for the weight of the light.
The widows would whisper, their prayers left thin,
For men who walked in but never walked back again.
There’s a lantern that swings though the house stays still,
A rocking chair creaks, though the air don’t chill.
Footsteps will follow when you turn to go,
But the house don’t need you to open the door.

One man, they say, thought he’d break the curse,
Said it’s just rotten wood and a pocket of earth.
He crossed through the gate with a book in his hand,
The cover went blank, the pages turned sand.
Another one swore he could last the night,
Slept under the beams where the stars lose their light.
By morning, his voice was an echo undone,
Just breath in the rafters, just dust in the sun.

Now I stand in its shadow, my hands gone cold,
The weight of its windows sinking into my bones.
The trees won’t answer, the wind won’t turn,
The world keeps spinning, but the house don’t learn.
I thought I could leave, I thought I was free,
But the road bends back like it’s folding on me.
My footsteps stretch longer, my breath wears thin,
And the door stands open—so I walk in.

No more sky, no more ground,
No way forward, no way down.
The hallways shift, the whispers rise,
The dust remembers, the doorway lies.

Oh, the house that swallowed the sun,
Where time don’t run, where voices fade.
You can knock, you can call, but the door stands tall,
And the road won’t show the way.

I Sang With The Dead Last Night

The night was long, the lanterns low,
The wind curled soft against my skin.
Somewhere past the hollow trees,
I heard them calling, drawing me in.

A hush of breath, a whispered tune,
A name I thought I’d long outgrown.
Footsteps fell where none should be,
And still, I swayed to what was known.

I sang with the dead last night,
And I don’t know if I came home.
The echoes held me in their arms,
And now I sing alone.

The graves were still, the gates were wide,
A voice like mine was calling back.
It knew my name, it knew my hands,
It sang the words my lips once lacked.

The ground was cold, but I was warm,
Their melodies became my own.
The rhythm spun, the dawn was late,
And I forgot the way back home.

I sang with the dead last night,
And I don’t know if I came home.
Their voices tangled into mine,
And now I sing alone.

I sang with the dead last night,
And I don’t know if I came home.
Their voices tangled into mine,
And now I walk alone.

Did I ever leave the garden?
Did the sun ever rise?
Or was I buried in their verses,
Bound in song behind my eyes?

I sang with the dead last night,
And I don’t know if I came home.
A song once learned is never lost,
And now I sing alone.

The night was long, the lanterns low,
The wind curled soft against my skin.
Somewhere past the hollow trees,
I hear them calling… drawing me in.

Mississippi River Poem

The night was long, the lanterns low,
The wind curled soft against my skin.
Somewhere past the hollow trees,
I heard them calling, drawing me in.

A hush of breath, a whispered tune,
A name I thought I’d long outgrown.
Footsteps fell where none should be,
And still, I swayed to what was known.

I sang with the dead last night,
And I don’t know if I came home.
The echoes held me in their arms,
And now I sing alone.

The graves were still, the gates were wide,
A voice like mine was calling back.
It knew my name, it knew my hands,
It sang the words my lips once lacked.

The ground was cold, but I was warm,
Their melodies became my own.
The rhythm spun, the dawn was late,
And I forgot the way back home.

I sang with the dead last night,
And I don’t know if I came home.
Their voices tangled into mine,
And now I sing alone.

I sang with the dead last night,
And I don’t know if I came home.
Their voices tangled into mine,
And now I walk alone.

Did I ever leave the garden?
Did the sun ever rise?
Or was I buried in their verses,
Bound in song behind my eyes?

I sang with the dead last night,
And I don’t know if I came home.
A song once learned is never lost,
And now I sing alone.

The night was long, the lanterns low,
The wind curled soft against my skin.
Somewhere past the hollow trees,
I hear them calling… drawing me in.

Ashwood, Louisiana

The road curves sharp past a cottonwood bend,
Where the air gets thick, where the world caves in.
Cicadas hum in the heat of the dusk,
The porch swings creak but don’t carry trust.
There’s a church half-sunken where the river runs wide,
Where the pews stay empty, but the hymns survive.
The wind don’t whisper—it just holds its breath,
Like it’s listening close to what’s been left.

A house leans deep in the cypress shade,
Roof caved in like it prays too late.
Black bayou water curls slow at its feet,
Dragging the past where the dead don’t speak.
The preacher’s daughter don’t walk no more,
But you’ll see her shadow behind the store.
She left a name carved into the pine,
But the trees grew back and swallowed the lines.

The river don’t rise, but the banks still break,
The road don’t end, but it don’t escape.
Some names get lost, some names get found,
But Ashwood don’t forget who sticks around.

Ashwood, Louisiana,
Where the doors stay locked and the lamps burn low.
Where the past don’t rest, where the trees still know,
Where the bones don’t ask, but the roots still grow.

The fields still stretch in a fevered sprawl,
But the hands that worked ‘em are dust, that’s all.
The train don’t run, but the rails don’t rust,
Like they’re waiting still for a reason to trust.
A widow lights candles on an empty sill,
Prays for a lover who lingers here still.
But prayers fall quiet in a place like this,
Where the dead stay close, where the land resists.

They say the town burned once, long ago,
Lit by hands that the law don’t know.
But fire don’t cleanse what don’t let go,
It just left the wood black and the voices low.
A red oak leans where the gallows stood,
Roots gone deep, drinking guilt like blood.
The stories still cling to the courthouse doors,
Of the men that swung, and the ones who swore.

The river don’t rise, but the banks still break,
The road don’t end, but it don’t escape.
Some names get lost, some names get found,
But Ashwood don’t forget who sticks around.

Ashwood, Louisiana,
Where the crows fly slow and the dogs don’t chase.
Where the dead don’t leave, just shift their place,
And the wind don’t blow, just learns your face.

The gas station flickers at the county line,
Last stop for those who change their mind.
If you hear your name on the evening breeze,
You best keep driving, and never breathe.

Ashwood, Louisiana,
Where the doors stay locked and the lamps burn low.
Where the past don’t rest, where the trees still know,
Where the bones don’t ask, but the roots still grow.

Nothing But Rain

Follow the trail where the animals dragged him,
Feel the sudden rush of silence,
No screech, no shout, no wail,
Just the weight of absence pressing in.

Snapshots from a deserted city,
Diffuse as dust on an empty street.
Walls lined in endless fire scars,
Wasteland mud still marked with tire tracks.

Concrete bridges cut the view,
Balustrades and broken wire.
Every road a dead-end wound,
Festering slow, refusing fire.

And when you photograph the rain,
It doesn’t shine like beaded glass.
It just looks like rain,
It just looks like rain.

A baggy valise full of darkness,
The first few stars clawing through the sky.
Sit on rubble, watch the crater,
Wait in no-air for the earth to rise.

A bright blue bulb, indifferent gaze,
Staring through the picture frame.
No wind, no weight, no time,
Just the gravity of something unnamed.

Crooked antennae scrape the sky,
Plastic bags catch on the hydrants.
Everything stalled in a frozen stance,
A ceasefire built of quiet violence.

And when you photograph the rain,
It doesn’t shine like beaded glass.
It just looks like rain, It just looks like rain.
It doesn’t shine like beaded glass.
It just looks like rain,
It just looks like rain.

Your lens is set on his body,
Underneath the flag he lies.
Dead and alive in no-wind,
A monument of stillness,
A masterpiece of constancy.

There isn’t even rain.
There isn’t even rain.
There isn’t even—

And when you photograph the rain,
It doesn’t shine like beaded glass.
It just looks like rain,
It just looks like rain.
It just looks like rain,
It just looks like rain.
It just looks like rain,
It just looks like rain.

Bury Me Facing West

They dug the hole at sundown,
Shovels biting through the clay.
I told the preacher,
"Let me down slow, But don’t let me face that way."
The undertaker frowned at me,
Said, "Boy, what’s chasing you?"
I just smiled with hollow teeth,
And said, "If you knew, you’d be running too."

Don’t mark my grave, don’t speak my name,
Just lay me down and walk away.
If the wind don’t howl, if the ground stays still,
Maybe I’ll have one quiet day.

Bury me facing west,
Let the sun be all I see.
Don’t let the shadow find my chest,
Or Lord, it’ll come for me.

The things I done ain’t written down,
But the dust sure knows them well.
A trail of bones from town to town,
Each one a tolling bell.
They said the past won’t follow you,
If you run far enough.
But the road don’t end, and the night don’t blink,
And the dark don’t give a damn for love.

Don’t carve no stone, don’t light no flame,
Just let the dirt do what it must.
If I wake to find the dawn still there,
Maybe I won’t rise from dust.

Bury me facing west,
Let the sun be all I see.
Don’t let the bones behind my steps,
Turn back to follow me.

Some men take their sins to the river,
Some men take them to the noose.
Some men run ‘til the road runs out,
But some men never shake them loose.

Bury me facing west,
And never turn me ‘round.
If I wake beneath the earth someday,
Don’t you dare come dig me out.

The Ballad Of Ezra & The Devil's Due

Ezra rode in from the southern range,
With a black mark carved on his name.
He owed a debt, but not in gold,
The kind you don’t outrun with age.
They say he killed a man in Jackson,
Shot him clean through with a steady hand.
But justice don’t wear no silver badge—
It rides in shadows across the land.

The dust curled high when he reached the gate,
The church bells rang but no one prayed.
The sheriff stepped out with his pistol drawn,
But he didn’t fire—just turned away.
In the windows, behind the blinds,
Eyes like ghosts watched him ride.
They knew the law couldn’t touch him now,
Not with the Devil at his side.

Oh, Ezra, you sold your soul,
Now the Devil rides with you.
He don’t take silver, he don’t take gold,
He just waits to collect what’s due.

Down by the river, under the pines,
A man in black waited still as stone.
He grinned like he knew how the story would end,
Like he'd already carved Ezra’s tombstone.
“You made a deal,” the stranger said,
“I gave you time, I gave you breath.
Now here you stand with your pistol bright—
But you can't outdraw death.”

Oh, Ezra, you sold your soul,
Now the Devil rides with you.
He don’t take silver, he don’t take gold,
He just waits to collect what’s due.

Some say they see him at sundown,
A shadow riding through the dust.
No lantern burns, no hoof leaves track,
Just a man who gambled too much.
So if a stranger by the river calls,
And offers time in place of pain—
You best ride fast, you best ride hard,
Or wear Ezra’s name in vain.

Oh, Ezra, you sold your soul,
Now the Devil rides with you.
He don’t take silver, he don’t take gold,
He just waits to collect what’s due.

A Knife For Every Lie

The preacher’s son rode out at dawn,
Left town like a shadow on the run.
A silver tongue and a hollow heart,
Never thought the past would weigh a ton.
But the road don’t stretch as far as sin,
And whispers don’t forget their name.
In the dark, the steel is forged,
And every blade remembers blame.

He spoke in riddles, laced with gold,
Turned confessions into chains.
Now the iron bites the cold night air,
Carved with sins that bear his name.
A knife for every vow he broke,
A blade for every prayer he stole.
He counts them rattling in the wind,
Like church bells tolling down the road.

They don’t ask, they don’t plead,
They just wait, they just bleed.
One by one, they’re hanging low,
Dripping truths he’ll never know.

A knife for every lie,
Sharpened cold, waiting bright.
They line the road, they line the door,
No preacher’s son outruns the score.

He stops where lamp light cuts the dust,
A bar with no name, just a flickering glow.
Behind the counter, the barkeep grins,
And lays a blade down soft and slow.
“I heard you coming long ago,
By the weight of every tale you spun.
You can drink, you can pray, but in the end,
Boy, a knife’s a promise that don’t come undone.”

They don’t ask, they don’t plead,
They just wait, they just bleed.
One by one, they’re hanging low,
Dripping truths he’ll never know.

A knife for every lie,
Shadows long, silver bright.
You cut too deep, you spoke too sweet,
And now the steel is at your feet.
A knife for every lie,
Shadows long, silver bright.
You cut too deep, you spoke too sweet,
And now the steel is at your feet.

The preacher's son took a step,
And the walls pulled in real tight.
A dozen knives, a dozen hands,
Waiting patient, gleaming bright.
He tried to run, but roads don’t bend,
When your fate’s already set.
And when the first blade found his skin,
It whispered, “Boy, you ain’t dead yet.”

A knife for every lie,
Laid out clean, sharpened right.
He cut too deep, he spoke too sweet,
And now the steel is at his feet.

The Bayou Knows My Name

I left footprints in the sinking mud,
Where the cypress bend and pray.
The river don’t rise, the river don’t speak,
But it knows what I buried that day.
The moss hangs low, the night sings deep,
And the wind don’t stir the pines.
The past don’t drown, no matter how far,
It just waits in the undertow, biding its time.

Oh, the bayou knows my name,
It sings it softly, calls it low.
In the hush of the reeds, in the lap of the waves,
It don’t forget, it don’t let go.

I left a name where the water runs black,
Where the willow roots stretch like hands.
The moon saw all, but the moon don’t tell,
It just watches where the river bends.
I hear the voices in the cattail hush,
They whisper low through the trees.
Every shadow that moves, every ripple that breaks,
Is a warning meant just for me.

Oh, the bayou knows my name,
It sings it softly, calls it low.
In the hush of the reeds, in the lap of the waves,
It don’t forget, it don’t let go.

I thought I walked away from it all,
Left it buried in the clay.
But the bayou don’t lose, the bayou don’t lie,
And I feel it pulling me back today.

Oh, the bayou knows my name,
It sings it softly, calls it low.
In the hush of the reeds, in the lap of the waves,
It don’t forget, it don’t let go.

In A Town Like This

In a town like this, the world stands still,
A man could fire a shot through his chest,
Let the bullet echo through his bones,
And no one would ever guess.
Dust don’t rise, the roads don’t end,
The sky just fades like a worn-out hymn.
Nothing moves ‘cept the crows on wire,
Waitin’ for the wind that won’t begin.

Where is the road that runs?
Where is the storm that calls?
Where are the ghosts with teeth like fire,
The hellhounds in the pines?

I lean out of windows and hold my breath,
Hear the whisper of rusted trains.
A pleading harmonica fights the dark,
Like it knows the way but can’t explain.
Climbing over sanatorium walls,
Bleeding notes like an old lament.
Telling me stories of open roads,
But I was never heaven-sent.

I could sharpen my eyes to slivers,
Strain my ears till time runs dry.
But I’ll never smell the westward winds,
Darker than a beggar’s sigh.
No Thunder Road, no blood-red sky,
No wooden signs burned down to coal.
Only dust, only waiting,
Only silence taking hold.

Where is the road that runs?
Where is the storm that calls?
Where are the ghosts with teeth like fire,
The hellhounds in the pines?

Children Of The Corn

From blurry color contours of faraway slopes
full-throated winds come down across the plain,
not as a leeway howling, but as a whistling tune.
In the wake of thunderclouds
an incurable silence seizes the land
and blankets the field at night,
keeping it much warmer than the sun ever could.

Gently the corn gives in to the gusts and sways
as if it walks the earth on skinny white roots
with ghost limbs of stalks ponderously set in motion.
Their eye-like shucks, twisted, bent, ready to dry,
soak up the possibility of rain
and save it for another day
in the musty dampness of the soil.

Silhouettes of grisly elongated heads,
they stagger where the spectres of missing children roam
and bow under the shock from almighty thunder claps,
final cackling hymns to destruction,
reluctantly exposing the sinewy worms to the night air
in regular sacrilegious patterns of plowed rows.

The storm arrives, the stalwart ranks of corn gyrate
like manic dancing dervishes metamorphosed
into a hissing army of foreboding,
spirits freed from the demonic depths of hell,
who whisper to each other in gleeful expectation
at the harvest of human souls
who carelessly ventured to go here unaided.

So many fallen solitaries never noticed
amid a field of thousands never missed,
the secret sighs and thoughts that say:
god spare me one more day of being.
But now the moon breaks through,
a murder of crows sits on fences like home,
the damned and dead may rest,
only the shadows of porches know more of their stories.