His Carer moves the brush for him,
His feeble weak hand shivering on hers as he guides it over the canvas
His head rolls,
Against his will.
He can do nothing for himself,
Wheelchair bound and dependent on others
An architect by trade in life,
An artist as a hobby,
A sportsman, winning medals.
Forced to live the rest of his 'life',
Breathing unnatural air through tubes
When asked how this plight befell him,
He will only gasp,
\"The bastard didn't even slow down\"
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