End of the American Dream
A poem
A poem
The old idols are falling — muscle cars rusting,
diners boarded up, the factory blackened and silent.
The landscape of opportunity lies pockmarked
like an abandoned motel’s cracked facade.
Another dream deferred, its promises peeled off
like the Welcome sign’s faded paint.
Hard truths exposed underneath,
injustice’s deep roots strangling the soil,
unrest seething beneath white picket veneers.
The curtains are drawn,
lively streets now laced with shadows.
Morning’s optimistic light recedes to the west,
chasing something it can’t catch any more.
They peddled mirages here once,
gossamer visions evaporating in dawn’s harsh rays.
But night brings swift disillusionment to those
sleeping under bridges of broken vows.
The siren song grows discordant,
its strained notes revealing the rot within.
Shiny illusions rust and fade,
yesterday’s dreams transformed into elegy.
Some still cling to gauzy remnants,
wrap themselves in moth-eaten flags
and recite empty mottos.
But the omens gather,
vultures circling what remains of promise.
Let it die,
the dream was only ever real for a fortunate few.
Plant new hopes in the cleared soil
and watch them rise, free from tainted roots.
From the ashes, something truer may grow.
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