The Wandering Ghost

Well he come from far off, over behind the hills
And he was raised on the silent stars, and the sound of the whip-poor-will
Now he's drifting slowly, in search of hope and wealth

Trading in poverty and scenery, for money and hell
He's just a young man, still in his prime
Now a faceless cog, in some old factory line

He's got a fuller wallet, and he's far from home
And the evening whiskey, and he'll drink alone
And the years pass by, as they often do
And autumn's greys, and winter's blues

His memories fade, and the pastel hues
The mountains, and hollers, that his childhood knew
He died cold one night, in a cinderblock room

Some say that his heart just quit
Beneath the concrete and steel
And the city lights, and before the first frost
But I knew that wasn't it
The sigh upon his last breath
Those twilight moments of existence

He died from a broken heart
From no mountains in the distance
It's true it was the vile hum of grinding gears
And the oppressive weight of concrete and steel
That wore down his soul until it was flat
And then they crushed his heart through a broken back
And they buried him there in a stranger's grave
With his proud mountains so far away

The factory's closed and the building's burned
And they left all his things out on the curb
And sometimes you'll see him on a darkened road
His lonely ghost, wandering home