Past the graveyard down the road,
Lives or dies a man out cold
Every minute is a burning desire
For him to feel there's nothing higher.
Hope he knows is also despair,
The lie of the land begins to stare
Every minute is a burning desire
For him to feel there is nothing higher.
Will any hand rise from the many dead?
Maybe it's time to be quiet instead
Breath continues no more so
The dead is the living let the dying grow
The man with nothing in him to feel
A sorrow or regret meaningless to conceal
Yet every minute is a burning desire
For him to feel there's nothing higher!

The spider, dropping down from twig,
Unfolds a plan of her devising,
A thin premeditated rig
To use in rising.

And all that journey down through space,
In cool descent and loyal hearted,
She spins a ladder to the place
From where she started.

Thus I, gone forth as spiders do
In spider's web a truth discerning,
Attach one silken thread to you
For my returning.

The ghosts of my past,
they haunt me.
Like the thousands of voices in my head,
they cry and wail in agony.

Sometimes I falter,
under the pressure of living,
all I'm doing is giving,
every last bit of me I have to give.

I don't want to die,
but I kind of do, I guess.
It's kind of hard to tell,
when your mind's a mess.

Nightmares consume the night,
insomnia prevails.
I feel weak,
no wind in the sails.

Now I sit here,
silently,
mindlessly,
and wait for you.

This could take forever,
but I've already had to wait that long before,
so it shouldn't be that hard,
to wait that long once more.