Line by line.
A curve, a flick.
Blank slate now more.

Creation thus of beauty,
or destruction.
For the slate is blank no more.
What of it now?

This new form,
strange and unique.
But of what purpose? Most ask.

For something of creation has purpose.
It is here.
It is born.

Laying in this bed,
dead awake.
Hours I hear tick by,
the clock still reminding me.

Numb I feel from the meds.
No pain reaches,
but unmoving I remain.

Can't run,
nor walk.
The cards have drawn this fate.
No fairness.
Why me?