I read in books
Though never experience personally, 
An immigrant never dares as much, 
That Americans used to their eyes upward, towards the horizon. 
On summer evenings, 
On winter nights, 
That far horizon
Tantalized, 
Seduced, 
Enticed America’s gaze,
and that in turn,
The American imagination, 
Captured the world. 
Much of that pride is gone,
Much of that hope is gone. 
And the horizon
Replaced by a box of lies
Carried in an American hand. 
Looking down, shoulders hunched
Monster like, 
The spirit that once took flight, 
Now tethered to the earth. 
Thoughts turned inward, inward towards self-deception
Self-delusion. 
Their characters captured in short, 
Complaints, 
Gossip, 
Hate, 
An unending torment of thoughts, 
Not worth having,
Not worth sharing, 
A vain quest for validation, 
We are little more than men and women of the cave, 
staring at the fire, 
Waiting for the fire
To burn us all.