query beside disquietude

when i die do they forget? or is it i who forgets?
as oblivion holds the galaxies, the bog messes my footing.
through the muck of fantastical marshes i tramp
to lose that for which i anxiously tarry
as if i've already been in the ground myself, only i have forgotten.
but is this me remembering? i grasped before, a future..
axioms bygone, obscurities far-off
the sleepless slumber and the road i neither disregarded nor recognized,
i knew of it somehow; how did i know of it?
does not this crux fade? only its grip tightens as weariness grows?
does this imagination vanish? am i forgetting?
all punished hearts, by their own mechanical beating, i remembered...
to dream what i dreamt, i remember...
do these dreams weigh themselves heavily,
despite the ego which by doom eludes me?