Note: Read this poem with an open mind and it might just tell you your story.
Past of the wooden doors and poignant panes,
To the everlasting lands of flora and fae,
In an island and a forest with an
Afloat as the dew dwindles down
From the hearth in the clouds.
She rises from the depths of dawn,
Enamored by the splatter of silvery sparkle
Of the twilight, and long
Caught in this tangle
Of the lignin and green – but
Oh! She can barely breathe,
The whispers of time
And the remnants of lips
Moving past –
The lands may be far past these cerulean seas,
But the memories linger on
Like the wandering light
Amidst the Northern dreams.