Through thunder and sun he stands high,
the lone dandelion in the garden of weed.
He trembles as the wind whispers by,
with none to hold in the time of need.
In the middle of night when silence prevails,
a wail is hear all around,
his tears go dry with the flowing gale,
tries he not to touch the freezing ground.
As the blazing Sun comes out to play,
the Moon walks to the end of the blue,
He prepares himself for another day,
dreading that may come, and the lonely view.