Follow

Follow

The sons of Mothers do not comprehend,
and so they stray into pale fleshy lips
that pout, preen and argue, while white veneers
climb pious soapboxes, spewing filth,
asking the masses to
follow,
follow,
follow,
where scorpions lurk, and cobwebs bind, antennae
waving, eight legs clapping as one. After all,
what's wrong with wise mature men preaching
the gospel, singing sanctified songs, seducing
young lads, claiming consent?

Sixteen year olds, hormones raging, no taller
than five foot eight, a first opportunity
to uncover forbidden glances in nodding dusky
shadows. Repulsive grins whisper and coo, beckoning:

“Trust me. Trust me. And, we'll fly to Italy in a bat's eye. Board
my personal jet with worn treasure, and copper stains” –
even if there is no truth to speak of.

And the boys craving for attention, love, and contact,
respond naturally to their call. They answer and
follow,
follow,
follow,
into depth's misery, forgetting to anticipate
the enemy. Instead those boys welcome abhorrent villains,
absorbing spiteful venom senselessly. Only those boys
can’t discern a merciless monster from a devoted comrade,
so they seek the sanctity of shore and
follow
follow,
follow,
the wicked pied piper who guides these callow boy-scouts
to that nefarious point just past the tide where
the indifferent undertow pulls fiercely, and folly criticizes
and obliterates naiveté. They
follow,
follow,
follow,
never questioning, just trusting blindly, propelled into futures unknown,
where terror screams, and the cold night scurries
across bewitched skin, astonished that no one heeded them,
warned them to lock their doors fiercely, question
what is not permitted to be discussed.

And so they
follow, once again,
into dusty silhouettes
and ghost worlds gray.