Roy Dawson isn’t just another singer-songwriter—he’s cut from the cloth of rock legends. The kind of cloth that smells like bar smoke, sweat, and American grit. The kind of cloth soaked in heartache, highway miles, and hand-written lyrics on paper napkins—torn and stuffed in back pockets after a long set at a dive bar somewhere between nowh

The Witch's TongueThe sky was still and heavy. I sat alone, listening to the wind slide over the rooftops like a whisper that didn’t want to be heard. That night, God spoke. Not in thunder. Not in fire. But in silence beside the television set. He gave visions. Six or seven, clear and hard as bullets. And one of them — one — was dark enough t