Walking into walls, veering to the right,
falling on the way, swaying to the music
which isn’t even playing…
something isn’t right.
The movement doctor says
I’m moving much too slow.
my speech is hypophonic,
my face has lost expression.
"You have Parkinson’s," he reports
"No, my sister does, not me," I tell,
"I’m afraid you have it too,"
he says
as bombs bombard my brain,
shaking, shattering, shuttering my world,
which will never
be the same.
I like the language is quite matter of fact then its bombs shaking, shattering, shuttering
Been there
We are all with you when reading this poem, I particularly like the last verse where you have summed up so succinctly your feelings.