The banner unfurled,
a white knight on his steed,
rapier wit held aloft,
a scimitar of colloquialism
puncturing his page with each
pare and thrust of
his time honored rhyme.
Don Quixote, stirring up his windmills
and setting his muse loose
in their subsequent churning,
a lone rider into the
forest of thought
emerges on the other side,
weary and anxious, but
charged with an army,
voluntary, not conscripted,
to wage this war of words.
No prisoners taken,
a band of poetic compatriots
at the ready, awaiting
for the next raid Into
rhythmic and lyrical verse,
none the worse for wear.
Blindly, they join him,
trusting his lead, not knowing,
not caring, but sure
the journey will end
in a secure sanctuary,
drawing out the best
they can offer. Showing
that no one follows.
Everyone leads,
Sancho Panza smiles
at the ready;
with windmills
of their own to tilt.
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