What Will My Heart See?

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
forgiving them.

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 
​her eyes?