King of America
He did not crown himself.
You placed the crown upon his head.
Once bitten, twice blind—
you called him savior,
but he was only a mirror,
reflecting your own illusions.
He walked not as a leader,
but as an actor upon the world’s stage,
a jester wearing the robes of power,
and the crowd cheered,
mistaking laughter for light.
You saw the signs in 2017—
the arrogance,
the fire of division,
the theater of rage—
yet you danced to his song,
believing democracy could never fall.
But he is not the disease—
he is the symptom.
The fever that reveals the rot
within the republic’s bones.
Money became your god,
popularity your priest,
and truth was crucified
on the altar of entertainment.
Now the world watches,
not with envy,
but with sorrowful amusement—
for even fools have learned
how easily a clown can rule a kingdom.
O America,
you who once taught liberty to the earth,
now tremble beneath your own laughter.
He is not your king—
he is your reflection.
And in his madness,
your democracy performs its last act—
applauded by the blind,
and mourned by the wise.
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