A shotgun blast.

Below the din of men,
Clanging, clattering, chattering apes that we are,
Lies a man,
He has the voice of a dying starfish,
And the texture of a dead one.
This is the man who found out what the shotgun says to the head,
Just before the trigger says "The End"
This dead and dying starfish,
whispers to me, from six feet under my feet.
I ignore it for a while, it's not polite to move at a funeral.
Within moments my ears are pressed against dead leaves,
The crowd is murmuring,
They shuffle,
They wonder, did he know Fred that well?
I'm shouting over their muted attempts at understanding.
"QUITE, FRED IS ABOUT TO TELL ME WHAT THE SHOTGUN SAID TO THE HEAD."
Leaves crunching in my ears,
Shuffling feet,
The whisper of,
"I'm sorry."
And I'm wondering how a starfish could cause this much pain.