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You shuffle and lean
due to the stroke,
lead with a shoulder
as if to stop life slamming shut.
Tuned to a wavelength
where all's distorted,
where sound, sight and speech
will never seem 'true' again.
You crumple to a comfy chair,
and while I study a life as a list,
your battered senses gratefully close,
lead you to sleep.

When you wake,
you're frightened and confused,
ash-tray eyes stare,
pupils wide -
offer inkblack means to write 'The End'.