False Idols, False Gods

False Idols, False Gods

We sacrifice our children
to a god made in our image;
voracious, it can never be content.

Like cattle raised for slaughter,
they are fattened on false praise,
goaded toward achievements
that the parents only dreamed.
Their successes are a mirage
that the parents wear with pride.

The god of triumph is bloated
      on their souls;
"Of course I love him,"
a hollow prayer said to a closed door.
Failure is a sermon
  of disappointment
  of unworthiness
seen in the eyes of the priests;
heard in the hearts of the children.

The cold catechism erodes at emotions
until only a polished surface remains,
a world distorted
devoid of warmth.

At best, a new generation of gods
will appear ...
For most, a puzzling emptiness .
At worst, a headline.

This new religion has decreed
"There's no place to be a child
in childhood anymore."
We have become fallen angels;
we have created our own hell.

An entry in  "Shadows and Light Poetry Contest" 
Line Limit: 40
Line Count: 31