A dream I wanna have lost to Oregon trails.

   The moon, raging in the night, sunk behind Wyoming mountains and nestled in Tennessee hills.

   As the rain on my best days has certainly faded away.
  
   I see the wind carry on as the lost soul, so weary.

   But fate withers with vigor both the flower and the tree.

   I'm falling.

   Does anyone hear me?

Climbing for the light,
Fresh air for the sprite,
Fed by his mother,
Watered by another,
Through heat he lives,
After cold he gives,
Years and years he spreads,
Now, here, no one treads,
Standing tall and strong,
To move his mass no way,
Though most gentle he sways,
To whispers of a song,
For vibrant air he longs,
Delighted by little things,
As a venue for their sing.