Picnic of the Living Dead

From my darkest hour I retrieve golden images of a smile letting me down.
I recall seconds recoiling from your upturned frown.
I meditate on minutes spent living on borrowed lives.
The sun rises with the predictability of a flock of angry Starlings.
My day of reckoning, I feel the mourning of your touch.
The afternoon, so sweet, so perverse, all meadows and butterflies, screams and fruit tart.
An evening when the shadows plummeted quietly and gently like a broken stream.
On this dark delicate stage I recall hands held, entwined bodies, severed limbs, sticky moist blood between kisses.
And now when the Ferryman asks for payment, to navigate the Styx still I refuse.
To admit that I killed you with the love that you misused.