The year was '83 a flatline in the dark,
Till my father’s own breath struck a desperate spark.
He pulled me from silence, from the "never-to-be,"
To wake in the cradle of the brave and the free.
But the air has turned sour, the colors have bled,
And the "city on a hill" is a house of the dead.
I’m a child of the analog, lost in the bit,
Watching the fuse of the theater get lit.
This isn't the future we saw on the screen,
It’s a glitching republic, a jagged machine.
The screens feed us venom in high-def and glow,
While the ghosts of the eighties cry out from below.
The flags are all frayed and the anthems are screams,
A political horrorfest drowning our dreams.
They’ve traded the heartbeat for data and rage,
Locking the soul in a fluorescent cage.
I remember the shadows, the cassette-tape hum,
Before we grew cold and the conscience grew numb.
If my father could see what he fought to revive,
Would he still find the mercy to keep me alive?
To be born in the smoke of a great, dying star,
And see that the "home" we once knew is this far?
I’m out of sync, out of time, out of place
A ghost of '83 with a mask for a face.
©️2026 By Mary Robbins
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