Like Lemmings on Crack

by Trevor Worthey

I had, once,
In an ire—to the throes of pseudo-passion—
A vision prophetic
And its horrors are still unclear.

A high rise of rock, resplendent with sulfur,
Sloping naught into waters of scorn.
And from its height, a group
Of nameless, faceless bodies
Singing, “Halleluiah”.

From whence comes our hyperactivity?
Where do the dreams of twisted,
Angered thought hail from,
When in our dormant state
We plunge ourselves—our bodies, laid bare—
Toward the rocks of illusioned bliss.

Their eyes, I know, were not their own.
Once, surely, this mass carried
Corporeal boons of self-realization.
But now, I look into the sodden souls
Falling; bearing an aggregate, unbroken girth.

And is aught in life
More than just routine?
To everything, there is a season;
For every action
An opposing reaction in egality.
Will words, someday,
In their detrimental health
Fall prey to the same (re)actualities
As their primate composers?
I fear they already have
And are plunging off a cliff.


 

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