© Joe Canning 2016. All Rights Reserved.
This old shoulder pains from an ancient wrenching.
The power that controls it has lost all sense.
Of the nine segments my trouble is with six.
Muscles and sinews rupturing daily.
Attacked by foreign bodies that prevent my curing.
Refusing to apply the mechanisms for my healing.
Forever in a hostile conflict, terrified I might get better.
Their weakness is their ability to hate and mistrust.
Any improvement is assassinated by contrived paralysis.
A Caledonian transplant incapable of integration.
A bitter implant that has prevailed this four centuries,
festering in my geographical region, well cultivated.
A transplant that is indifferent to my indigenous cells.
Conflictions, hate and fear continue this damned dislocation.
Awkwardness, intransigence, bigotry, destroying my very fabric.
An aggressive strain dismissing thee of peace.
My condition is critical but I am patient. I will wait.
Doctors of politics refuse to dispense the correct medication.
Their blatant inattention to my well-being tears at my soul.
I await the arrival of those gifted with common sense.