Jousting at Windmills
I used to crave magic, something
I was sure was there, somewhere,
sprung to life, but somehow
missing me.
Take-charge heroes, dragons,
really anything Medieval, gritty,
larger than suburbia, critical.
I was certain that a life
ought to be driven and dangerous,
strange and in the wild,
that the truth must be that
love aches and catches in the throat,
that goodness shines, that evil crawls,
that friendships are tested and hardened
in a crucible, and life
is grim and hearty and reveals
the arcane and mystical clues
that we might use to understand
the divine.
Life felt like it should be like that-
romantic, sorrowful, magnificent.
But life is mostly not like that.
Life is long and little and easy
to pass through, and the cruelties
are human and often removed.
And the dangers are largely known
and manageable, and hardship is
more irritating than hard for many.
And love is pleasant, isn't it?
And adventure is either planned
or out of reach, and
our comfortable dust has settled.
Our days are well-kept and happy, so
really there is no need for heroics, and
no reason to stir up any trouble.
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