Answer:
At the sound of me, one may dream or stamp their feet, At the sound of me, one may laugh or sometimes weep.
What is put on a table, cut, but never eaten?
Always old, sometimes new. Never sad, sometimes blue. Never empty, sometimes full. Never pushes, always pulls.
You heard me before, yet you hear me again, then I die. Until you call me again.
Searing 'cross the pitchΒ-black skies, I scream in celebration, Yet moments later, my outburst through, I am naught but imagination.
In birth I spring forth, in life I unfold. In death I wilt and die, but rebirth restores all.