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.