Who invited the clowns

I’ve been trapped in its headwind,
no respite or hiding place,  
the weathervane points me out,  
creaking as the cockerel finds me.  
It demands a sacrifice,
It’s neck asking to be sliced.  
 
When I close my eyes I see the hill,  
a derelict windmill, its cold silhouette  
carved by storm clouds,  
tattered blades turn  
in the flash of lightening.  
 
I take the rancid flour from its mill,  
purge my bloodstream with black weevils  
and hang as pale as Bowie’s clown.
My frown coughs up enough makeup  
to colour the flames  
as the fake building burns.  
 
I can hear my Don Quixote at the door,  
a comedic black knight  
trampling the ground around my bed,  
calling out across the white poppy field,  
a mad saviour who can only exist  
to paint his smile on my failure.