You make my convictions come true: A poem 

I have a thickly wooded forest of metaphors 

to relate to the fact that you are the jockey and the spurs 

Though your untruthful puns are like Huns with guns 

I am never undone; it’s a game where the fun is yet to come 

You may not be an orchard, but still are vindicative by-lanes 

that feed my fabric, I don’t depend on the rains 

I am gathering wisdom’s seashells on your beach 

to stock the library of my study, from what you teach 

Your little lies only comply; not the eventuality defy 

Like mother’s instructions, I obey, asking not why 

Humility’s mentoring seeks not a single reason 

to deny diehard duty, that weathers every season 

Thus, I am never clueless in my hunt for rare earth 

There are diamonds on my tunic after sifting through the dirt 

Every pillar of such grooming holds up the roof of truth 

And I believe, through you, my convictions will come good