The past,
memories called tears;
understandings
as old as rocks,
cold and hard.
Immortal as Gods
the ghosts of freedom
have penetrated
our lusts and desires;
twisting our hopes
into a powerful wanton dream,
a clenched white fist,
a glazed tomorrow.
A nation,
desperately clinging
to forgotten lies and drying tears,
trying to believe
in the past promises
of our bent and broken,
American Dreams.
Sandra Osborne
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/american-dreams/
