Held in rapture to tiny visions, they sway like leaves drained of color and swoon like maidens unadorned with either wisdom or common sense.
In awe of shiny lights and words born on ideas made of mist. The tragedy of captivated mobs submerged into destinies all too common on the cracking pages of history's dead potentials.
Everyone chooses a side but some with fervor more bizarre than reasoned.
Once more a mere man is draped by illusion with things of heaven and the divine, when in truth he simply brushes his teeth and burps when he's eaten too much.
No longer enamored with the guitar strains and flashing lights that transfix many a child, those who follow find new obsessions to cultivate their sense of purpose.
They chant, they cry, they claw at the air. When true believers find their idol to be made of dust, they believe with added passion.
"Hope." "Change." Fun and games. Destroying a civilization is no big deal if it's on someone else's tab.
Like they've done through the millennia, they march in the hope that those of more practical intent will be bound to silence. They yearn for their dream to get enough foot in the door to storm the palace and lay waste to the suburban backyard garden.
So far "Forward" they tread, they once more reach the back again in that repeated passion to reverse the course of human progress.
Their voluntary return to cave and swamp born of high ideals and a mundane inability to simply pay attention.
