behind every closed door

gravel fills my mouth;
I bide in the great northern lights
of my heart of hearts.

talk of me
is cheap these days;
those who attended my funeral
put on a good show,
but they can't keep from backbiting
in private.

that's alright; I bless them all
from this place of unimaginably sweet light
and ethereal vision
where we breathe wisdom
and spend our days handing out
fountains of love to each other.

I forgive them;
I was a bastard, after all.

and what they're doing is nothing
I didn't do,
with every death,
behind every closed door.