(Chris DeGarmo)
Little girl sits in the corner
locked in a stare.
Arms waiving madly at something
that sadly isn¹t there.
Dressed in the day¹s best by a nurse
who¹s nowhere to be found.
What does she see ?
Maybe she¹s looking at me.
Old man is strapped to the seat of his chair
wearing a gown,
shouting and cursing at someone who clearly
isn¹t around.
Father Time has twisted his mind. The staff says,
³He¹s not well !²
To whom does he speak ?
Maybe he¹s speaking to me.
So we keep these people inside these walls,
from society.
Their forgotten lives safe from the crowd,
they can¹t leave.
Through the doors come people like me,
good-bye to them.
They see a picture few of us see.
They can¹t leave.
You¹ve left them here for me.
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