The eighteen-wheeler speeding 'round the curve

The eighteen-wheeler speeding 'round the curve....
eleven hundred weeks—before me—flashed:  
the doctors, nurses, students, staff, the rooms, 
and soon, the judge and jury, lawyers—theirs 
and ours—harangues on mercy, blame; intent 
and chance, revenge and justice....Time we spent
rewording and remaking life: I'm numb
with dolor, fury, horror, guilt, and shame; 
the runes of woe, my daily torture, now
tattooed inside my wasting folds of flesh. 
Emotions cling, unsaid, unnamed—preserved  
inside my jaw and limbs, my blood and bones,
the meanings lost, just piles of words and words.  

The eighteen-wheeler speeding 'round the curve—
and for a moment going o'er the curb—
now swerved about the purple traffic cones  
(thus marking borders of my tortured nerves).  

But What Does It Matter?

What does it matter?  Asking I, at first
on sunny days (my body shivers, aches).
Life's a dream, in death it's enveloped firm—
though over pocket myriad gashes felt.

This letter now I'm living—or am I
more the letter written, rewritten, signed?—
tell me to whom it may concern, and why?
Is life a curse?  Or from the lord, a boon?

If my life's the letter, sung it's my tune;
under glasses, moments noted are runes;
and moments not, are endless landscapes strewn
with blurry ink—a soft inert cocoon
(dark enough to dream of butterflies soon,
common dream of hopeless humans unhealed).

Who's the receiver, postal system, dank
tongue that licks with care the envelopes sealed,
unknown unknowns in heaps, and myths unpeeled.
 
Who am I, the poet, poem, rhythms
and rhymes that hoist the feelings, senses, thoughts?
If received, then tell me: What has mattered?