Blast From the Past (a poem of retribution)
There was once a critic of such little renown,
limited in his scope, and so new in the town,
Thinking he had all the answers and real talent,
little did he know, his cause, not so gallant.
His grand critique of one writer was so mean,
Hiding the envy that he held, and so green.
He lacked the experience and true humanity,
Beyond his own nose, he simply could not see.
Only time and experience, patience, and praise,
Could save his career and to cherish his days.
The true meaning of expression, valued by all,
Each in his own words, the big and the small.
His blasting was relentless, saved not a soul,
Instead of respect, his contempt he did extol.
He launched himself to strange worlds, in vain,
The more he vented, the greater his own pain.
When looking in a mirror, his true self he did hide,
Instead of a villain, where only a cherub did abide.
Perhaps one fine day, his wrongs he shall right,
Understanding humanity, and gaining more insight.
His blast from the past, may become praise, to replace,
Valuing expression, by each child, and with true grace.
The human spirit, a great power, all holds deep within,
A message of hope, to the misguided, we shall send.
