The miserable friend we all dread to see

People often say to me
what a beautiful day.
So I look around;
I search for this beautiful day
they have found,
but to me
it seems the same
as yesterday,
and the day before
and even before that.
Am I missing something?
Perhaps I'm looking in the wrong way,
maybe I'm seeing
and yet missing the day,
where is it I ask;
this beautiful day?
Over there, they reply,
it's in the sky,
it's in everything that's vibrant
and alive,
doesn't the air smell sweet?
aren't you glad to be?
But as they ask
I keep seeing this dead dog
that I passed on my way here,
I can see it in the sky,
it gives me fear,
I can smell it on the air,
rank carrion
on stale air.
Glad to be what?
alive?
Spectating?
A massacre?
What you call life
I call snuff,
I say quietly.
Then I walk away
and think to myself,
I'm too melodramatic
for beautiful days.