The elephant in the room
stands there quietly
understanding he won’t be there
if we don’t do something to save him
from ourselves.
No room in the inn for him,
they call it “habitat loss.”
Not possible to overlook if
we would only wake up:
Try not to think
of that elephant in the room
dying.
We can not not think of him,
or not,
but we do.
We do it easily.
It’s the big things we ignore:
no one talks of death,
our own,
or that endangered species
which is worshipped and tusked.
No conspiracy of silence,
not golden,
but silence of the silence to come.
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