Stroke Journey

Cold distorted images, twisting through my head,
Harshly discovering hidden areas,
To prod and probe with reckless abandonment.

Lips that once whispered a lullaby to soothe a crying child,
That kissed with wild abandon a lover’s form.
An elegant, eloquent mouth.

To be transformed into an odyssey of twisted flesh.
A sagging grimace of a smile.
Etiquette enables people to fain sympathy.

Muscle bones, sinews, still warm
Cry out to be heard.
They are answered by silence,
And more silence, silence.

By Yvonne Kent Pateras

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