In the canyon where the coyotes cry,
Old Jim walked in with a fevered eye,
He swore at dawn he’d claim his little land,
But the deed was dust slipped through his hand.
That night he stumbled past the lantern’s glow,
Found Mary weeping where the river flows,
He raised his fist in a fit of spite,
And left her cold by the pale moonlight.

In the dust of the frontier, blood stains the plain,
A gun still smoking, a widow’s refrain,
No pardon given under the prairie sky,
When the innocent fall, and the wild winds sigh.

The sheriff came riding at first light’s break,
His boots weighed heavy for justice’s sake,
Old Jim stared hard, said he meant no harm,
But Mary’s ghost still holds his arm.
They hauled him down where the gallows stand,
Under a flag that once flew proud and grand,
He swung in silence, the desert heard his plea,
But mercy died where no one could see.

In the dust of the frontier, blood stains the plain,
A gun still smoking, a widow’s refrain,
No pardon given under the prairie sky,
When the innocent fall, and the wild winds sigh.

And the tumbleweeds roll where the tears once fell,
Echoes of sorrow ring like a death-knell,
The land keeps secrets in its cracked, dry hand,
Of murder done and no contraband.

Now Mary’s name drifts on the dry night air,
In every shadow, in every prayer,
Old Jim’s boots are empty, his heart a stone,
In the silent town he stands alone.
The frontier rages in its timeless way,
And justice hides where the coyotes play,
So heed the danger when you stake your claim,
For the price of greed is a burning flame.

In the dust of the frontier, blood stains the plain,
A gun still smoking, a widow’s refrain,
No pardon given under the prairie sky,
When the innocent fall, and the wild winds sigh.

In the dust of the frontier

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.

In the dust of the frontier

Terminalose