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