Golden Droppings

My heart is made of flesh --
of this I'm certain.
A man, a man named Socrates,
sits inside my mind,
and mutters golden droppings
of the utterly divine.
I haven't found my heaven,
but I'm certain I'm not in hell:
this life is for my living,
and in it I'll not dwell.
Remember her?
These faces paint a lifetime,
but the memories are mine.