The scrolls of words rolled like pathways of green,
Pattered little steps into a deep grove…
Through hawthorns, nettles, poison ivy, wove…
They weaved a song bladed in tangerine,
Slicing open with knives of sweet citrine…
Whispered on winds far, of some secret trove,
Ever coldly buried in the deep iced Nov’.
Does it exist, if ’twere not truly seen?
Thinking some treasure must surely exist,
On the traveler sailed through storms and gales.
Faced bravely the disorienting mist…
Repaired the broken mast and tattered sails.
When all the seas and forests searched, none missed,
Was it a pointless search of empty trails?
David Emeron: Sonnets 