Runaway.

There is a private little thing with stained glass wings
that calls out and shouts and sings.
In the darkness she abides moving along with the tides
spinning and winning and choosing the side
That she wishes to defend.
She can no longer pretend.
This is not the end.

On sparkling waves she swims and plays
freely in the dancing sun.
Yet not far away she sees the bay
and knows she must return home again.
Her free colored wings and miraculous things
remind her of better times
When the clouds poured no rain and the stain
of the blood on the carpet wasn't made.

And here she flies up to the skies on nothing but lies
and figures out, she never dies.