Un-understanding

Is my heart made of rubber?
And are my eyes deceptive saucers?
Do I have 'Stoopid' stamped on my forehead?

It's a burning white truth
on the way-side of me,
like the hills that make like elephants,
but to me, gloomy and gray.
Rain pacifies surfacing fury
the same as the world spins,
just to come back and start
at unfruitful cycles again.

People, we simplify,
give words to feelings,
which in truth
are infinite.

The elephants loom large and gloomy,
beacons of size and intensity,
calm and ferocity,
- the white truth,
than we flee from.

It's the white that reminds
that you cannot flee,
and the gray melts to find
a world never to be.