Counting Sheep

A Poem by terriblerosey

for my aunt

It flies overhead,
Swirling,
Whirling,
Thousands of feet above the ground,
Waiting,
Watching,
Knowing that you’ll never be this high
Because you have no power,
No will,
No regard for yourself,
Or the world around you,
Only caring about the next meal of solidarity
To hang your symbol over,
It being the only item that keeps you whole and complete,
Giving you a blind ideal
And a beautiful utopia,
While the rest of us laugh at your idiocracy
And incompetence at dealing with the normalities
And abnormalities of human existence,
Which is why there are so many others who fall to the disease of fake bliss
Without fully realizing the true nature of this parallel universe of unrealistic reality
And this is why I think it’s funny
That you ask me to write about that meaningless orb of unseeming sorrow
High up in the sky.