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Mammoth Are The Bubbles
Mammoth are the bubbles,
In which they live.
None are squeaky-clean.
Or could pass a health inspection test.
It's the image that is protected.
A visual left to digest.
A way a life delusions have tested.
And left undetected as one to suspect.
Humongous are their issues.
Excused but viewed as tremendous.
Overexposed are they but don't know it.
The extent of it has been ignored.
And wishes they should be received...
In grand receptions,
Based upon a greatness they have let sour.
Has pomped and circumstanced them into bankruptcy!
And truths like these are difficult to camouflage.
Mammoth are the bubbles.
Loud is the pop.
Faces twist into a traumatic fix.
As people living in sheltered hives...
Have no where now to go and hide.
Mammoth are the bubbles.
Loud is the pop.
They find themselves on the outside.
Wandering around and shocked!
It is hard to excuse these visions.
And not easily erased are they from observation.
Explanations are not prioriticized as requests!
It seems those witnessing,
Have come prepared to be barricaded and blocked.
But find they are not.
At least not yet.
More have become stunned,
By the pretense of it all!
As if staged...
To warrant a solicitation of empathy.
poem
by
Lawrence S. Pertillar
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