My Saviour

Pen in hand

I am strong.

Ruled lines,

thick sheets

I find peace.

A swirling, whirling,

nauseous mess of

chaotic thought

and kneaded emotion

stops.

Paused.

Still.

The crushing clenched

fist around my windpipe

ceases. Weight

of a thousand years

upon my chest

relents.

Inhale.

Weakened tissue wheezes.

Burning. A rush of oxygen,

filling scarred streams

and crippled lungs.

Eyes are focused

on this here moment.

Washed away are the

tumultuous tides of

past, present and

what will never be.

Ink is my blood.

Trees are my bones.

Writing is my soul.

A second of peace

because,

pen in hand

I am free.