Collecting the Dead


I see things that you pay not to see,
I am walking through the frostbitten city,
Early in the steel light of an urban morning.
My life is not so extraordinary yet,
I have to be the man that no man should be.
For I am the collector of the dead.
They are frozen in positions of cold memory,
The homeless population of the City of Wind.
When I see them, tears are frozen to their cheeks,
Their last words are unbearable to speak,
Coughing in pain before their last sleep.

I see things that you pay not to see,
I am crying in the frostbitten city,
Early in the steel light of an urban morning.
Their blue colored features are always the same,
Eyes open in terror, people without a name.
With their hands in the shape of a claw,
They scratch at their faces when they are numb.
Their lips are cracked showing crimson lines,
From them screaming into the unforgiving air.
When I see them, they are frozen to the street,
Their last words are unbearable to speak,
Gasping for breath, before their last sleep.

And so the story goes year after year,
Maybe next time, someone like me will find me here.
Looking up at him through ice eyes frozen in fear.
He'll shake me until he's sure that I'm gone,
But the job will get to him, it won't take long.
And so the story goes year after year,
Millions of people are dying out here,
So when you look out of your window and,
You see me shaking in the wind,
Read my lips and remember when,
My last words are unbearable to speak,
Finally finding warmth in my last sleep.