Tilting At Windmills
Like Don Quixote
I was tilting at windmills.
The futility of hoping you could kick your habit
just too much.
The cogs in your head turned
the stone of carelessness and ground on and on
grinding all my faith to dust.
In your cups your arms flailed
like the sails of windmills;
my pleas lost on the air they created.
Now I cannot look at a windmill
without regretting all that energy, wasted.