Lemmings To The Movement

Dark and wet,

the earth radiates a scent of green

and a metallic taste on tip of tongue

Weathered grasses brush legs,

with touch of an uncertain lover

whose calloused hands reveal life of true toil

The horizon crests in a wave,

threatened by distant lightning,

spurred by the heated atmospheric tension

As the wanderers congregate,

stepping to the edge in unison

oblivious of the age old map above,

unacquainted with lost civilization below

Misguided by voices of generations gone slant

the persuading magnetic pull,

forces hasty retreat

but not before the brief hesitating stun

of perilous possibilities

But then washes the never mind,

and the thought hazing drive,

so head first they die,

an innate diving blind

E.A. O’Connell