White Hart

Deserted fields, deserted thoughts.
The Hart's been here; What were the odds?
His search goes on, with cautious eyes.
He follows tracks into their lies.

The wooden web, the weeping grove
Is where he seeks the treasure trove.
An empty chest without the gold.
A heartless chest: untouched, unfold.

Thieves they are, of trust and hope
Who feign to throw a solid rope.
Well, yet it's made of words alone
And has no value on its own.

But, in the end, he may find light
And sometimes catch the White Hart's sight.
And if he's lucky this one's true:
A seldom bright heart just for you.