Perhaps she phoned to say goodbye;

or maybe tell me she's still alive.

I do not know, but I wonder why.

And what type of beast is her hurricane,

the storms that rage inside her brain?

It's dark and cold, it has no name.

It took it all from her, except her shame.

It took from her, her sanity.

It took from her, her family.

It took from her, sweet black and blue. 

It took from her, her Master too.

So here's to her, and hard cold rain.

A poor windswept thing, amidst such pain.

I sense what was, might never be.

Unless from this storm, she can be freed.