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The ignorant swim
through blades of grass —
untouched, unthinking,
emerging unscathed.

But the bones of the meek,
the timid who stand in line,
are put to the soil,
grounded into humus,
to fatten fields
they will never own.

The mud keeps them —
though history does not.

Roots drink their marrow.
Seeds bloom on their silence.
And monuments rise,
casting a shadow
on their surrender.

Meanwhile,
the ignorant wander on —
their hands empty,
their pockets full,
claiming harvests
they never sowed.
Jan Reest Aug 30
Like children,
we chased each other around this life —
a game of hide and seek.

Catching each other’s glimpses
in corridors and daydreams,
your smile kept me chasing,
and your voice kept me lucid.

You hid, and hid,
so I would seek you out;
and when I unraveled the curtain,
you weren’t there.

The promises we made
now live on as echoes in the dust.
The walls are my witness,
and the bruises are my alibi.
  Aug 30 Jan Reest
somedumbbitch
How can I unmake indignant hands,
rolled, into fists?
If I kiss the fingers, will they unfold,
like celestial doors,
and beckon me in?
If I traverse your lifeline,
with softened eyes, and lips,
will we time skip,
Into a time, and place,
that's better, than this?

Even in thunder,
you dwell
at the center, of me.

I wonder,
would you melt...
with my hand, on your cheek.
  Aug 30 Jan Reest
Nunu
a moth mistook my lamp
for the moon,
and broke itself
believing
the light was love.
ive always found moths melancholic. perhaps they embody the essence of delusion that we cling onto.
  Aug 30 Jan Reest
Dr Peter Lim
Don't bring me
any flower
too soon
it will wither-

only this
you need remember
bring me your heart
this love shall last forever -

I'm poor
but a scholar
for you I'll write
the sweetest love-letter-

your charm
glows brighter
as I lie down
in my gentle slumber
Jan Reest Aug 28
walking along
the shorelines of the abyss —
the corals are charcoal,
and the sand is coarse.
hand in hand with cacti —
your thorny grip reaches deep
as I mark my steps,
pollinating the sand beneath;
looking around for seashells,
and hearing their voice —
their echoes cry tales of voyages
and love lost,
of deserted sailors
and meandered lovers.
your lips are dry,
and your hair is tangled —
it looks like it'd hurt
to kiss you.
why do I miss you when you weren't even here
Jan Reest Aug 27
stomped out
bonfire
cleaved lips
soft kisses
bruises
with hickeys
kissing you better
tips of my fingers
tracing
my suffering onto you
your skin a map
I long for home
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