My story of us
Of a clock blonde ticking
Counting the sheep until apocalypse
A simple verse would not suffice
Nor would a complexity borne of years.

A deluge of elocution,
Remembrance drowned.
The fickle combination of
Llamas and lambs grazing
In my backyard alongside other
Metaphors.

The llamas wear glasses sometimes

Anguished intellectuals
Locked up in bedrooms
Chained to porches.
Their advice is good
Their words wise and thoughtful
Themselves, ****** up.

Ink stained tomes littering desks.
Nail bitten fingers clinging to pens.
Red veined eyes squinting at parchment
Words given life. But to follow ones own advice?

Rare is the joyous bespectacled llama
Bestowing wisdom onto the sheep
Watching them frolicking on the lawn
Trying to find rhythm in gangly legs
Urgently, awkwardly alone.