I’m laying down
my arms. I suppose
I must admit that
I’m not entirely
free of fault here.

I could have retired
from the field gracefully
when it became apparent
that I had picked up
the wrong kerchief. to fight
so fiercely for the favor
of someone whose eyes
and heart were elsewhere
was my own pointless

sometimes a windmill
is just a windmill. the
Fair Dulcinea is not really
a ragged peasant girl under a spell
that requires me to give myself
three thousand lashes
to break it, she’s just
otherwise occupied.

burn all my books
of chivalry, then
and let me swear off this madness
for a year. we’ll see
if I still want to pick up a lance –
or a Lance – when my blood
has cooled.

Published by

R. Brookes McKenzie

what fresh hell is this

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