It wasn’t tanks or bullets on the street,
No boot heels drumming in a steady beat—
Just morning news that played like any other,
A husband kissing children, then his mother.
While orders were carried out from a distant command,
Like a noose tightening by some invisible hand.

My neighbor waved and trimmed his manicured lawn,
The coffee tasted warm, the day’s routine moved on.
But something in the air had turned to lead,
A weight of truths left carefully unsaid.
The phones still worked, the lights burned throughout the night,
Yet the public’s voice now trembled with subdued fright.

They didn’t need to storm the castle gate—
We handed them the keys, then called it fate.
We bartered liberty for comfort that enslaves,
While they silenced those defiant and truly brave.
The moment wasn’t fire, nor the storm’s swift flood,
But silent acceptance that froze my American blood.

I looked around and saw the stark truth at last:
The future was a copy of the distant past,
Where critical thought was quietly stifled and undone,
Where every face denied the darkness had ever begun.
It wasn’t revolution’s crimson stain—
Just waking up to find freedom bound in chains.

The worst part? How the sun still rose each day,
And how we embraced the new imprisoned way.