When their fingers touched, he didn’t just hold her hand. She became an extension of him and he, an extension of her. ~ Mark Thompson


A watery grave in shifting tides in motion bound by wind and moon, upon the waves is where he thrives, complete, as one with this green room. The soulful song of swell at play, the churning bass, the crash, the boom, the blissful kiss of first sun’s light, above underworld he drifts attuned. ~ Mark…

Moist towelette

She was a moist towelette. Torn open and used, to wipe clean the mess left, from just another face; left discarded in waste. Not once did they know Her softness unseen, her refreshing white glow, those sweet, cleansing pores; those yearnings for more. ~ Mark Thompson

Tree of life

That tree of life so old and wise has seen so much beneath it’s ‘guise. The prosperous churn of the human burn, imploding itself in changes bold, no sense of life in new from old. Just ignorance cast On journey’s past. That tree of life looks on in fear as we the man leave nature…