Nordic Dreams

Through forded streams, nostalgia seems, to be a sense of Nordic Dreams The pathways to yesterdays, appear to retreat to ample schemes. Broken nails and nightingales lighten up your brooks and streams. Take a lock of broken stock to see what truly seems. Lilt repose in lily throws, is knocking at my silken chair Through the slits, the moonlight sits, its gaze upon my flaxen hair. Opportunity flaunts as debutantes, in appearance gracefully debonair. Gentle words floating from the birds, act upon me without a care As a white dove from above, with beads of honey running wild I withdrew to be with you, for words that are Coleridge styled. They come in turn, to gently discern, and then gather into a pile. In a continuum, within this kingdom, they come at us all the while. Though they seem as in a dream, to be of pure fantasy; if I believe, I may conceive, to have them become reality. They may seem far as a distant star, but may be in propinquity. Permanence in ascertainments, can be a hallmark of destiny. They address as they coalesce, the storefront pretentiousness in giving description, within inscription, with literary prowess. Words convey, contained in a foray, upon the domain of impressiveness, they are contained as they remained, as acknowledged in cohesiveness. All the rhymes during the times, taste as sweet as butter creams. As a scribe would inscribe, the essence of moonbeams In our yesterday, and today, written on papyrus reams Both fantasy and reality, within the nostalgia of Nordic Dreams.