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.
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