The poet and the dreamer

(This is a bit corny but I tried).

I walked into a sun lit field, of poems growing wild,
And saw you standing near a poesy bush,
You looked at me and smiled.

In your hand you held a spade,
With which you used to plant a verse.
About your feet were other poems
That you had set, then, traveled here to nurse.

Your words surrounded me within a wave,
Of majesty, and grace.
Of all the meadows that I’ve beheld,
I have seen none so beautiful as this place.

Enlightenment, and spirituality, grew freely
Here and there.
And the poems that I found were lulus,
Completely beyond compare.

I stared at all your works, with great
Respect and admiration.
“Truly sire, you are a master of your vocation”.

“If there were one thing, to you
I would confess,
It would be that I long to have
Even a fraction, of the talent,
That you possess.”

“It’s true; I have a talent which I can’t deny,
For penning the emotions of my heart.
Still those invidious few I have found
Are taking pleasure in ripping my works apart.”

You threw your spade against the earth,
And sighed, defeated and bereaved.
I admit this left me more than just a little,
Angered and displeased.

“Those fools care not for what you do,
Or see how much you give.
They are only jealous, because,
It is in your glorious shadow that they
Are forced to live.”

“Please, teacher, I hope that you can see
It has not been just your poetry,
Here that grew,
Myself and other dreamers like me,
Come to this place religiously,
Just, to celebrate you.”