It’s hard to fall asleep when you see all the holes in things
It’s hard to fix them by yourself
It’s hard to make somebody happy
Let alone to make yourself
Now the trees fall down by the window
It’s late at night and you feel alone
Think that roof might not stay on another winter
Another winter and that whole damn place could be gone

If I were a storm upon the ocean
I would move towards the land
If I were a quiet, haunted dreamer
I would hold your hand

Its the curse of the seeker to be unfinished
It’s the job of a fool to be a saint
The prairie is cursed with red and golden ink
The sky is just a swirl of paint

I am a storm upon the ocean
I am moving toward the land
I am a quiet, haunted dreamer
I will hold your hand
I am a quiet, haunted dreamer
I will hold your hand