I’M ONLY THE NAIL, HOW WOULD I KNOW

Space is reclaiming the matter of my mind;
poor mind in touch with the fact
that it is losing itself.
Dementia reshapes my thoughts, while
silence holds back the noise of me, twin powers and I their prey.
Though wanting to die in peace, I find myself
dying in pieces
my powers whittled away by
time’s keen, if filthy blade.
In another corner, there is a race to see whether my heart will stop beating me
or my mind thinking me
first,
both clanging into an unsustainable
future in which the only part I can play
is watching my own decay.
If you knew
that was the only show playing,
would you watch?
Then I wonder,
When I die, how can I be received
by that in which I’ve not believed?
Comes an answer:
“Neither knowledge nor ignorance is an
impediment to salvation.
There is much knowledge, the mind is
ignorant of.”
I’ve said it before:
As nail is to hammer
poet is to poem
driven to splinter bored existence
while binding something other, something better
to hold us all together
Maybe
it’s a master plan.
Perhaps
a carpenter sent me.