Dulcinea stands before you, just
Out of reach and beyond your grasp.

Never wanting to take the easiest route
Out of this self induced state of madness
The lance has never left your hand and

The steed charges ever onward at your call. The
Image before you grows more brilliant as she shines in the
Light of the illusions which you have created
To explain her continuing and unending

Absence from your arms.  
Turning toward her, you smile

With a certain satisfaction because you are certain
In your belief that her eyes sparkle only for you.
No one else ever could hope or
Dare to bring her eternally blissful gaze to their heart or face.
Many have taken this route.
In seeking the dragons which keep you apart the
Lessons are lost upon you, time and again. For you
Love the portrait of perfection before you, in
Spite of the aloof stance she takes.

Freedom is the choice to make the greatest
Or most minute of errors.
Racing after her gossamer gowns and windswept

Tresses, the silence is but a matter of her game.
Having never heard the voice that within her lives you imagine
Every word that may fall from her lips to

Drip with the whispers of angels, the chorus of
Raindrops as they sing a soothing tune,
Ambrosia itself in audible form.
Getting closer still you extend a hand,
Only to find that you must get
Nearer to her and nearer
Still before you may touch her hand.

As the windmill draws more near, the
Reflection of your dreams, the sweet and
Ethereal idea which so tenderly caresses your

Gentle mind and ever so delicate heart
Only seeks to torment you further with each of her smiles.
No one may hold her, no knight, no matter how brave – for she only
Existed within the walls of your mind, and was never within reach of your arms.