My uncle died from Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease. It made his brain dissolve itself in nine months. I stood next to the once-stalwart man, With mechanic's hands, Lying in his hospice bed That smelled like disinfected death. During his short stay there I heard him say "What's happened?" In his faltered, degenerated state. "What's happened?" He repeated, as he saw his withered arms, While wearing a diaper, Gazing around with half-empty eyes, Grasping for some shred of light In his shattered ruin of a mind. The life he once made for himself is gone, And somewhere within himself he knew it. Somewhere that held on until his final breath, As he shrieked with pure fear In his final sleep.
Overlooking the back parking lot of this hospice A playground stands, built by hand. The children probably look over here And wonder what this place is, What happens here. I'd tell them that These are things you don't need to know. Now go stay outside and play While the sun is still up.