The Miracle

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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.

The women tried to explain

                                                    

                                                That they were not

The miracle.

            I did not listen.

        I went on

undeterred, mad

       to convince myself.

Yes, Yes, they were

The miracle.

The only one I knew.

I'd felt it once

         or twice,

 firsthand

and spent my life

                                      trying to reclaim

the moment.

                         Women are the Muse.

Any of them.

                          All of them.

                                              And the Muse is

The one thing worth

                                         Dying for.