Lyrics The Wandering Ghost - Panopticon

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 factories closed and the buildings 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.