He taught me how to wield
the weapon made of words—
a blade that kills,
now saving lives,
like it once saved mine.
My own work
pulled me back from the edge.
And in it,
he lives—
my teacher,
the man behind the lines.
Words—
once carved deep in the mind—
outlive the flesh,
outlast the hands
that once shaped them.
His words stopped me
from falling
to the hundred voices
that came to ****.
They caught my train
just in time
as I stood on tracks
with no will to run.
He never held me,
never came near.
But light can shine
without a hand,
and grace can guide
a demon back
from its final breath.
He never said : “Stay.”
He never said : “Don’t die.”
He simply lived
in such a way
that I believed—
perhaps, this world
can be heaven
for someone.
And that was enough
to make me see
the hell I’d made
and the rat I’d been,
crawling through tunnels
thinking no one
ever looked down
with love.
From The Desk Where Mr. C Sat
