It never happens right away.
You read a poem, a book,
"A beautiful piece of literature,"
Later, you find yourself thinking;
right before you go to bed,
driving to work, on the bus.
It happens slow,
little ones, big ones.
When did this happen?
That simple piece of literature,
(because it IS literature).
To you it's a marking point,
a helpful reminder of who you wanted to be,
a time to turn things around,
a figurative prick of you finger.
Twisting you gut,
sometimes in a good way,
sometimes jarring like the slam of the breaks.
An almost crash,
you were close.
"Saved by a beautiful piece of literature,"