The Smoke of Your Departure

High School

Your children are converting.

Lost in delusions of love,

silently their senses alerting

to the absence of noise.

They hear so much

in the rush of the turning.

Burning faster are the bodies,

wars and disaster screaming.

But they hear nothing.

What a catch, she said.

I got the last of the good finds,

the latch closing and

leaving the rest of us behind.

I heard the lock click,

time tick,

the door stick.

I know I'm not getting in.

So do the rest of your children.

We realize that you never made an agreement,

you just took our hearts and they will never be returned.

Do not blame us  for the lessons we learned,

because you were the best teacher.

Your children, they turn to the sea.

Singing laughing dancing free.

They are good converts, pagan and easy.

They take their religion to a new level.

No longer basking in the morals of god,

but the releases of the devil.

They found your gates closed-

your shelters cold-

your morals gone, your stores spent.

There is no more love to spread.

So they fill themselves with what is left-

the smoke of your departure.

You cannot blame them.

They heard no sounds of your preacher.

They learned sad lessons from sad teachers.

They gorge themselves on your absence,

the scarce substance you chose to leave behind.

What a find, she said.

The gates of love are latched.

Our tones detatched, we live on.

We heard the lock click,

the door stick,

time tick.

Your children know you're gone.

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