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Exile Eternal - Cold Iron Song--Childhood Trauma Industrial Southern Metal Anthem)

The school bus rattles in winter like a chain gang on parole. Every morning it comes groaning down the frozen road, iron links clinking against iron links, cold metal talking to cold metal in a low, resentful murmur. The kids inside are shackled to the seats by seatbelts that feel more like ankle cuffs, windows fogged so thick you can't see out, can't see freedom, only the gray smear of your own breath on the glass. The engine coughs and shudders like a prisoner clearing his throat before another day sentence begins. The driver, half-asleep, half-angry, shifts gear the way a man in leg irons shifts weight—slow, deliberate, knowing there's nowhere to run. Outside, the chains of ice on the road rattle back at the bus, answering in kind: you're not going anywhere fast, boy. Not today. Not ever, if the cold has anything to say about it.The rattle is the sound of being born already indentured—to schedules, to bells, to rows of desks waiting like cells, to the promise that if you sit still long enough, behave long enough, the chains might one day loosen. But they never do. They just get quieter. You learn to stop noticing the clink. You learn to call it "growing up. "That's the winter school bus: a rolling iron promise that the system starts early, fits snug, and never quite lets go. The chains don't need to be loud. They just need to keep moving you forward, one rattling mile at a time, toward a destination you didn't choose.

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