These were the miracles.
The young never
understand
that miracles
come through pain
a baptism
in broken glass
Here I reside
a lone heart's finality
covered in a batch
of old wounds
a thousand puckering mouths
aged shut
pursed in scar
the raw,
unprovoked confessions
of the women
of vengeful lipstick.
They tried to explain
To us
That they were not
The miracle.
We did not listen.
We went on
undeterred, mad
to convince ourselves.
Yes, Yes, they were
the miracle.
The only one we knew.
We'd seen it once
or twice,
firsthand
and spent our lives
trying to reclaim
the moment.
Women are the Muse.
Any of them.
All of them.
And the Muse is
The thing worth
Dying for.
Mar 12, 2014
Mar 12, 2014 at 9:22 PM UTC
These were the miracles.
The young never
understand
that miracles
come through pain
a baptism
in broken glass
Here I reside
a lone heart's finality
covered in a batch
of old wounds
a thousand puckering mouths
aged shut
pursed in scar
the raw,
unprovoked confessions
of the women
of vengeful lipstick.
They tried to explain
To us
That they were not
The miracle.
We did not listen.
We went on
undeterred, mad
to convince ourselves.
Yes, Yes, they were
the miracle.
The only one we knew.
We'd seen it once
or twice,
firsthand
and spent our lives
trying to reclaim
the moment.
Women are the Muse.
Any of them.
All of them.
And the Muse is
The thing worth
Dying for.
