Sleeping In the Rain

Every step forward brings an energised momentum. Leading me toward a portal which leads me to the Styx ferryman I am confronted with this resoundingly unique shape, the emblem of its industry. His coffin puts out its tentacle seeking my name Past aisles filled with '***-ash' Lils and lipstick smothered whore's, I walk inexorably on. Past the row of walking stick, benefits claiming, blue badge carrying, hand-me-downs. And those 'mutter-under-the-Breath' blue veined brigade, always ready to Judge the dress you've chosen for such a solemn occasion. Well, today I didn't let them down! When I get there, what I see is a pseudo-realistic pantomime. A Frieze of alibaster-marbeled features, a mask of barely recognisable 'What used to be' I'm confused. Am I supposed to love this empty form of you? Should I kiss your brow? And taste the loss of you on my lips. Or enter into a pact of believing that you lie there, waiting to kiss me back. What I want is to be guaranteed this will never happen to me again. I want to be able to give my love to someone and not have it thrown back when their 'use by date' has expired I want the time, before time stopped, to start again. I want the muscles in my neck to become unknotted and my wine bill to become averagely normal again. Oh, and I want his wife to know I was the other woman