White sterile walls
Promoting the purity
He sits and he trembles with rage
His legs remain folded
And his hands still are clasped
For years he has sat in this cage

Accepted it calmly
For the good of the mind
By choice did he take this life on
He signed all the papers
They slammed shut the door
And wait 'til the crazy's all gone

Sat in a corner
And leaned back his head
Mind slipped in to the fragile-spun lies
Eight-legged sleeplessness
Arachnid insomnia
He'll be here 'til the day that he dies

Dry, age-old cobwebs
Soft blanket insanity
They span form his hands to his nose
From his calves to his thighs
And his feet to his knees
While spiders crawl over his clothes

Behind his gray eyelids
Lives an insectile hell
That grows with each withering hour
The creep through his consciousness
And gnaw on his stamina
They multiply, pulsate with power

If control was but his
Could he move, could he speak
He'd scream and he'd pound on the walls
But instead he just sits there
Feels their eyes on his face
Stern dark angels peer in from the halls

Pay no attention
This one's self-committed
If he wanted, he really could go
But they know in their hearts
That these walls aren't his prison
He's in places the sane never know

Where the spiders, they creep
From his mouth, from his eyes
They cascade down his gray jumpsuit chest
They empower his thoughts
All emotions have ceased
As he dies here in mental arrest

Stern angels glaring
Cobwebs immobilized
He drowns in the black, soulless deep
In his eight-legged horror show
Arachnid insomnia
Because even the spiders don't sleep