Poetry is a Kind of Savior

Everybody has a place they run to when their world is in chaos.
For Christians it is the Church. And for Muslims, it is the Mosque.
For me, it is Poetry. 
At two a.m. I am stuck on my lover’s Facebook wall, 
re-reading my unreplied messages. 
I do not feel like I have a soul again | my husband has beaten it out of me.
My walks are faint, & I live on eggshells.
If you can come closer,
you will read the stories of marks that are mapped around my body.
My body is a generation’s history.
It is a building that houses the meaning of vulnerability.
And it is a broken soul, sheltered within the four-walls of poetry.

These days sorrow eats away
the courage of brave men.
And fright makes warriors take flight.
The streets are desolate & I can hear the echoes of my own thoughts.
Life looks very dissimilar.
And I fear for my disorientation.

When no home would accommodate my madness,
and no ear would listen to my shrilling.
Poetry kept waiting, with it hands out-stretched.
It kept waiting for me to find my path,
me that is a complication, walking through sulphur-disinfected pavements. 

I remember that one time, that time when I misplaced my happiness.
The road to the stream appeared shorter than it usually was.
I walked to and fro until my feet grew big & watery sores.
That night, it was poetry that took me in. It cuddled me away from the precipice of death.
And after then I could live again, because poetry is a kind of savior.