When the words left you,
when one average morning
they rammed themselves
into large shuttles
of parting dialect
you bore the look
of suprise
like a lion felled.

The slack of your mouth
like an overused elastic band
made movements
of comedy.
The spittle worming
from the split of your lip
like frothy milk
down the side of a mug-
Karmas encore.

You'd refused to move
from your chair
as if to hold the truth
in its physical form
containing it like a raging child
but the dart of your eyes
spoke otherwise.

How unlike you
not to say a word
how fine to see
the flapping fish of your tongue
motioning nothing
but sporadic slaps
of wet muscle-

Useless and defunct.

Vincent James Turner

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/stroke-9/