This is where I laid it to rest,
the loyal heart dead in the breast.
This grave needs no marker:
The memorial is the scar.
The fresh earth calls for a eulogy,
the air heavy with want for an apology.
I buried all the lies you told,
poured out the bottles of snake oil you sold.
I gave last rites to my naïveté
and trust that succumbed to decay.
The obit will read a polite tale,
but you and I know the truth well.
Cause of death a stranger,
a casualty of your shit wager.
Here lies your integrity,
along with several pieces of me.
What is the going rate of a soul?
Nearby, the funeral bell tolls.