Poetry, Sickness and Sanity

                           ''If sickness were poetry''                
We, mortal Beings, with perpetual spirits, have we, but one earthly life to live,    
a good word to give, and many sufferings to receive..              
Have we but only rhyming lines, a desperate feeling and a fleeing time to catch the life that is running away..between our fingers  ..            
          
The threads we weave for a restful feeling, for a moment of peace,              
for an evasion into bliss, will cloth the body we discard,when death rings its toll, and the hours stop to roll....              
               
Poetry is sickness, a calamity we are plagued with, a virus with no cure,              
a clueless mystery.No virus is more killing, no remedy is more curing                
than words themselves.      
            
Poetry is the poison and the antidote, it is life and death,              
and we poor pen wielders, we fight the malady for which we reject the remedy.Alas! the fate and destiny are what make us travel to and pro        
seeking wisdom through insanity.        
          
Sometimes, i feel like being emptied of my inner body, a feeling of complete loss, Something solid inside me is missing, a heavy mass of a solid stone should be found there,a landmark i have to start from and find my way.or may be the Alpha that triggers all the letters to reach the Omega where we heal    
..................              
When the words start to follow one another, and the linear track is being little by little built, along with my mindful thoughts, then the cure is being prepared from the source of the malady itself, until a network word composition has              
found its way onto the blank sheet.We make our own healing inky potion like wild beasts,and stoic, self dependent and auto-immune with our own poison.......