We are gathered here today,
in the tombs of your living room,
to bury
the beloved, one and only
source of all love,
eternal source of all blood,
into the acidic chasms
that lead to the digestive paths.

It is thy
heart
that thy will swallow
and abandon it through thy bowel.

We come not to mourn a death,
but to lay
ventricles to rest.
So we shall not mull over
the tragedy of death by neglect.

Instead, we celebrate tonight
the lost life of a
heart that beat
only to pump blood. Whereas
it’s need was to spread love.

And though the lack of that
is that which made it die, we
are here to remember the glimpses
in which, in those courses, it did strive.

Like the time in which it led thy hands
to pray for Indonesians,
to write a simple wrong,
or to spread change to stinky, crazy, and often muttering men.
But mostly it was to make some person laugh,
and give such a thing while eliciting nothing back.

But then clouds came and rained
pain from over head. And you did not fight back
and the laughter ceased, and so
thy heart is dead.