The unfulfilled expectations of the people
who still tolerate my presence or are willing
to pretend for the sake of mutual friends or family.
Losing battles. Bottomless glasses and nights.
Rampant prejudices that feed on nitrogen
and generalization. The inflation of compassion.
Vague fears about nothing
coming from everywhere like monsters
that refuse to stay hidden under my bed.
Fiery preachers of capitalism, licking
every apple with cloven tongues
until the bubble bursts.
Myself, white knight without a sword
and, of course, time. Always time.
Everything but windmills, to be honest.
Windmills are fine.
(c) Leen Raats
This poem was published in DarkWinter Literary Magazine from Canada, in November 2025.
Leen writes 
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