Smokestack dawn chills my ragged skin
Iron jaws scrape where the day begins
That punch clock hum feels like grinding sin
Dust in my chest keeps dragging me in

Cold hands ache in the early gray
No voice here to push the weight away

I am buried in this turning wheel
Losing grip on the life I feel
Every breath tastes like metal steel
Still I stand though the cracks reveal

Broken lamps buzz above my lane
Steel on steel keeps biting my brain
Crowds move past but the chill remains
Work songs fade into flat terrain

Cold hands ache in the early gray
No voice here to push the weight away

I am buried in this turning wheel
Losing grip on the life I feel
Every breath tastes like metal steel
Still I stand though the cracks reveal

Night creeps slow on a crooked track
Shadows rise but I push them back

I am buried in this turning wheel
Losing grip on the life I feel
Every breath tastes like metal steel
Still I stand though the cracks reveal

Buried in this turning wheel

The entire sound is in my hands. I write cyber poetry, produce, and compose every track ready for Immersive 3D. Every beat is crafted for spatial and next-gen headphones.
Intimate lyrics, total immersion, every track.

For 30 years I kept unfinished demos to myself, never letting them out. Now I finish what I start and release it the moment it’s alive.

I use every tool available, human or machine, as an instrument.
Technology doesn’t replace creativity. It expands it.

Buried in this turning wheel

Terminalose