Where I come from only a ferry stands between me and paradise.
And paradise is separated by oceans of water too fast to swim across.
Water too deep to thread and the air,  fresher and I am accustomed to.
There are more corbeaus than humming birds where I come from.
The stench of decay rises from houses made from bones.
Ashes mix to paint clouds and,
Mourning ushers mornings making melancholy known to sunlight .

Sunlight however is mostly appreciated by excavators,
Happy to exhume new corpses.
Rain falls from firearms instead of the sky and tears pour from open wounds instead of tear ducts.
And night is every horror movie given existence.
And night is every nightmare given existence.
And Paradise is somewhere behind the line where the sky kisses sea.
And sunsets are swallowed whole.

Deneka Thomas 2015

Glass hearts can only break after falling...
And they know that, but they fall anyway,
Counting the time between gravity and the earth so that they could make every second of their wholeness count.
They've lived lifetimes in that space,
Not succumbing to the laws of physics because science didn't teach you how to love when all hope was lost.
It was instinct.
It was soul.
It was whatever existed beyond shape..
Beyond form,
Beyond glass shells that could undoubtedly be put back together.
Changing shape forever.
Missing pieces forever.
Imperfect forever and ever.

Dancing rainbows heckle the sun.
Jealous that everything orbits the star.
Grateful that the Sól of the universe contributes to their existence but they curse in silence...
Appearing unannounced and bringing smiles on rainy days by ironically displaying multicoloured frowns.
Holding grudges over sunsets.
Plotting against sunrise,
Conspiring with the night.
Unsatisfied with it's mere moments of glory.
Still whispering silent thank you's
Bipolar rainbows.

First it was a tornado,
Then it became a lion,
And one day it'll become a memory,
Floating...
Somewhere...
Burning paper tips at the end of clouds like ember,
And sunsets dipping below horizons,
To conclude that life...
Moves on...
Isn't it beautiful though?
Ripples like an angel's vibrato across waves.
Singing in harmony with perfection.
Silhouettes and dancing shadows,
Stretching beyond vision,
Disappearing under currents,
And making itself known in another hemisphere.
Peaking and rising and sharing its beauty with someone else.
While its absence is mourned.
Until it returns in the morning again.
Bring new hope.

A thousand love poems yoking to pages you will never read.
Though some have slipped from my reach,
Seeking refuge from the muse, responsible for their existence.
L is for lion.
And is what you are.

Nuclear bombs still explode in my chest.
Miniature mushroom clouds rise from my insides,
Because heart palpitations,
Isn't enough to explain the way I feel about you.

Eagles still flutter in my stomach.
Their wings still cut me from the insides,
Because tiny little butterflies,
Doesn't even begin to explain how nervous you make me.

Roses crawl up from my mouth.
Thorns, wrap around my tongue,
Because being at a lost of words...
Is only half of the story..

My legs are amputated with diamond blades.
I have had enough phantom limbs to last a lifetime.
Because getting, weak in the knees for you
Is a terrible understatement.

This is emotional genocide
And you are on the winning side.

My soul is in surgery.
Tattered pieces are currently being sewn together.
Needles, of diamonds.
Stitched, with Ivory.
Repainted. With shades of ichor.
None but the gods have the power to save what little of it remains.
Their hands, claw deep into my being and it pains,
Once they are through,
It will be as good as new.

My soul needs beautifying.
Lavished with Koi ponds,
To replace the craters.
Polished with Orchids,
To replace the dead roses.
I somehow trust that someday
It will regain its glory.
And that the world will see it smile again.
It no longer wants to be in ruins.