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Tools of war, once glorious,
now rust in the barren earth.
I wonder what became of the soldiers —
those who abandoned conscience.
I wonder what became of the martyred —
“Heroes”, they are called.
Heroes don’t die.
I work the rigging and draw the sails
on a life that rarely catches wind.
Blisters on my hands,
splinters in my soul—
I navigate uncharted waters
to reach a land unknown.

I gnaw on hardtack;
it feeds but never fills.
Each night I look into the deep,
unafraid it might pull me in.
Cannonball strapped to my leg,
should I ever let it.
Carry me anywhere
but this wretched boat.

The sea is life.
Life is unruly.
Of all the battles I’ve fought,
none as unwinnable
as you.

I retreat to my quarters,
seeking rest.
Dawn tosses silver on my soul,
jolting me awake.
The woman hesitates.
"I'm afraid of falling in love,
what if it doesn't work out?",
she naively asks.
Those that love,
have not the time or privilege
to scrape the bottom of a tar filled
jar to see if it shines.
Those that love—
love because they can't breathe
unless they do.
Those that love—
love because they starve
unless they do.
You are afraid,
not of love,
but of loving me.
You are a coward,
who cowers in fear,
not of love,
but love for me.
You are a prison
of flesh and bones—
one that traps the conscience
from waking.
You are a liar,
not one that lies to others,
but to herself.
I've seen the way
you looked at me.
I've felt the way
you felt for me.
Will you lie to someone again,
the way you lied to me?
Will you tell him of the time
you were emotionally intimate with me?
Or will you deface your conscience with lies
and ignorance?
Even though you don't like me,
I still don't hate you.
I feel bad for you,
not out of pity—
because you lie to yourself.
Perhaps my guilt was my capacity
to understand and see.
Perhaps you didn't want
to be understood and seen.
Perhaps.
The snails drag their beings
across this sodden earth,
defiling the mud that lay beneath.
Wild grass shall not grow
where they trailed.
Mourners shall not cry
over their open caskets—
not even flies shall gather
to sing a song of despair and misery.
The soil and the worms
shall not eat into their bones.
Their beings are a witness
to deicide.
Their breath is a testament
to humanity’s eleventh hour
on the cross.
Jan Reest Jul 14
July 14, 2025
The seconds hand is an aching needle,
pushing deeper into my conscience
with every passing second.

One span is enough to measure my despair—
twice is enough to **** me ten times over.

I'm tired.
Why won't this day end?

I want to lay my head on the pillow
just to span the time that's left
by skipping it.
Jan Reest Jul 9
My chest laid bare
on the muddy soil—
my ribs, flowered open.
Despair, my canvas—
picked apart by scavenging savages.
Condemned to the deep,
my heart lay.
Jan Reest Jul 9
You're an idol
of my making.
And yet, unworthy
of worship.
I committed to you,
my heart and soul—
in hopes for affection.
I put you
on a pedestal—
burying you in a sea of incense,
giving you mindless desire.
What have I received
in return?
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