Doctored.

GP Self-centred trinity:

The father, the son, the holy ghost.

They say 'practice makes perfect,'

Prefects perfect generality.

The wounded wolf who cried out sheep,

Warded by shards of elusive sleep,

Shivering, de-furred, veins exposed -

Petty self-portrait, selfish composed.

Salvation is submission,

To a god I don't understand.

The bruises remain on battered hands,

Prescription reeks of crucifixion.

Love parasites plague liberty:

The cure, the ally of the ailment.

They say 'it's how to save a life,'

Lusting a twisted nobility.

The alpha and the omega-3,

Base dyscalclia stained livery.

Post-doctorate salvation,

Twelve step Asimov assimilation.

Some say I'm as well:

I'm a 'physician' too,

Symptomatic deep-thinking,

Yet Bruises on hands still remain,

Morning: the death of another day.

Resurrecting obliterates meaning.

Wronging rites the force-fed death-bed conversion,

And the man in the wheelchair's the arrogant one?