It never happens right away.

You read a poem, a book,

"A beautiful piece of literature,"

they say.

Eh...

Later, you find yourself thinking;

right before you go to bed,

driving to work, on the bus.

Everyday things.

Wow.

It happens slow,

perspectives change;

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,"

you say.