A Poem For Don Quixote

Don Quixote stumbled back in,

From off the battle fields where he had been.

He wearily sank down into the closest chair,

And scratched his head through his thinning hair.

How long can he fight this ongoing battle?

He can’t stop his mind from its endless prattle.

Where are the reinforcements to help my fight?

There are so many wrongs that must be made right.

Don’t they know, can’t they see the injustices he sees?

Why can’t he cease and be one of life’s absentees?

He continues to intercede in quests that don’t matter.

He ignores protests that seem to be endless natter.

Hasn’t he fought the good fight with diligence?

Didn’t he serve with the strongest vigilance?

His daring adventurous deeds authentically chivalrous

Are now just humorous and defined as frivolous.

He assumed his exploits would receive honorable mentions,

As he attacked his windmills with honorable intentions.

Thoughts of better days will roll through his head.

But for now, even his sidekick Sancho has fled.

Do all old warriors grow to be out of their league,

And battle with memories of battle fatigue?

As he contemplates his gallantry to only be folly.

His thoughts now lead to a great Melancholy.

Though he fights alone, he still hopes to find,

That the windmills he fights aren’t just in his mind.

My sweet Dulcinea with beauty so fair,

I’ll defend you if anyone should tussle your hair.

He no longer remembers who dubbed him a knight.

“Come Rocinante, there are battles to fight.”

There are no words of encouragement spoken.

But what is the life that is sane and yet broken?