Crazy grace:

She sits at the table

Watching the world.

Little does she know,

Of the world she misses.

Proper and secure,

Awaiting her predetermined life.

But the song has changed,

In the middle of the road.

She felt the cold

She kept it in.

And now:

The fire's a rage,

Her hair's a hot mess,

The wild is out,

The scratches on her soul are gone,

No longer one,

But the world itself.