As it snowed, the efforts of his toil gave in
To a white, crystal veil that blankets the dead
Just as well, sometimes you couldn't look at them
Snow covered all and the harvest would dream again

He worked alone and the ground was so frozen and cold
Later, many would be taken by his strength and vigor
But all the more by the interiors of his psyche
And the craftsmanship of his labor

Time had granted many companions
Upheaved from the Earth, sometimes in pieces
Now a__embled into a personal museum
Dust covered all and he would never be alone again

Can you not see the helplessness on his face?
Condemn the man who was always alone
He was no more a ghoul, than a pathetic angel
Without a full appreciation of what he had done

Can you not see the loneliness on his face
He's better off dead, he should have never been born
What now, what can be done?
Burn the past and burn what could become

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