Is it not true what I see when I open my heart?
Sentencing the heroic organ to solitary confinement.
Do I still possess those demons of times past?
Waiting for the moment of weakness.
Can I dislodge the lost and misunderstood messages
of temporary loves and lusts?
Had I even known the difference?
Call me sentimental,
but I can not seal away the tragedies
of my youth without first
Will I not succeed in this never ending quests?
Will I not find my grail?
Sip sweet, golden nectars with Deities of Antiquity,
quenching my thirst, tantalizing dormant taste buds,
rejoicing in the blood of the Goddess.
"Go now," I say. "There is nothing more to be had here."
The stolen corpse has come back to life,
an eternal haunting from buried temptations.
Shall I set them free?
Is it not true
what my heart sees
when I open my eyes?
Can I swallow the ignorance of aging guilt,
wrapped tight around canisters of molten ice.
Glaciers of blue melt in the moon's heat,
while icicles dangle frigidly from the sun's summer cold.
Are we all not just set in stone,
collected pebbles on a receding, lapping shore.
Do I dare move out of place?
Will I tilt the earth off her axis?
Will my life and actions continue
to regret themselves,
as they always do?
Will I recognize insanity when he raises his maniacal head?
Will I know Satan when he shakes my hand?
Or has he already,
and now he's a friend.
What will my heart see,
when she opens
Mary Maurice wrote her first poem when she was in the ninth grade, and hasn't stopped writing since. Catching the fire at an early age, she continues to dedicate her time to the craft.