A poet s dream

I'm not a real poet or a writer,
And name of mine was never ever known.
No person ever sat there all withdrawn,
And while reading work that's mine and lighter,
That sudden spark in eyes of his lit up
And smiling he'd suddenly get up.

With dreamy look he'd wonder all around
Not fully realizing where he is yet.
And only hearing still the story sounds,
And only seeing characters and stage set.

He'd seem to stare at a table, sofa, chair
His body, arms and legs, all of his there.
He'd maybe even stand there unaware
With only difference is that he wouldn't care
About all of these things around,
And only still remembering the sounds.

He'd like the work a lot, and even more...
And tell his friends and neighbors from next door,
How wonderful the characters all were,
And how they fought and loved, and much, much more...

But like I said before, I'm not a writer.
And so therefore, those lines were only dreams.
The dreams of mine so far away they seem
At present time
But someday, no one knows
That maybe even I will get my dream.