Pirates hunt me, dragons hoard me, maps may guide explorers toward me. Some of me may shine and gleam, yet I am more than I first seem.

Some are built of stone In ancient and desert lands Others are built on a lie grown Promising riches that slip through hands

The result of mirrors and light A permanent portal to the past Memories tangible through touch and thought

Picked by hand to begin, then Whitney created the gin. Woven and sewn for daily attire, wash me cold, or else I will shrink entire.

A Roman parade A sarcastic canine A motorcycle A stunning win.