A wit stop on the way home

There was once a woman worn down by life. Crack of death fed her wit as a never ending logic current of infinite proportions. It can look like clever but isn't. It can look like logic but isn't precisely that. Her survival shows that though not named so clever as me, she is because her survival named her so. Though fear named her coward her wit can carry her home. She's only a wit stop away perhaps, but what she needs is a man size Venus Hill to welcome her. Or so it seems to me. Everyone needs a home.