Don Quixote

Like everyone I meet, I too am limited,
in my world view, by flaws inherent,
knowing not a way to surpass, I cry.
I disgust myself, slowly turning
into a wretched being, hateful.

With false hopes and futile trials,
I aim to the infinity.
No, it’s not immortality I crave,
but a stare, a look into certainty,
not wielded in ignorance,
but in that truth, undeniable,
whose proof stands clear and simple.

I, a mortal being?, am I?
with potential none visible,
dares in pretentious optimism,
to possess that statement,
of whose nature I am blind to.
Yet, I struggle in desperation,
acting noble, as Don Quixote inspire.

Just another fool, an idealist,
is what I am, as I rebel
through a quest, superfluous
it may seem, extreme it
might not be, Yet often senseless.
Imprisoned though in notions not obvious,
I await death or an answer.