She was the mechanism that made his second hand tick. ~ Mark Thompson


Herded cattle, eyes on glass, ears plugged in. A bustling train โ€“ so empty; the walking dead. What’s your fear? Fear of contact? Of culture? Of difference? Of the unknown? Smile. Try it. Just once. Make a play. Open up. Closed. No response. Darkness fading. End of the tunnel, Bringing forth the bright. Sunlight ripples…


She was the oxygen to his flame. ~ Mark Thompson


If she could see herself the way he does, that smile would never leave her face. ~ Mark Thompson

Song of you

How can I write the song of you, when words in rhyme cannot express, clearly divulge, nor deeply carress the sweetest of connections shared. For a pen is just an object used to scribe a language known from past. Yet the song of you is only known in a language new, yet to be shown….

Wet Paint

Never allow loveโ€™s paint to dry. Let it ooze down sweet upon your all, allow the rain to soak and mold itโ€™s skin, in peaceful bliss brought from within. Allow it to pool in conditionless flow, like your blood and mine so entwined. Let it bleed the edges, enrich today, let it drip forevermore at…


When I gaze into your eyes and hear your thoughts in carefree bliss, when I grab your ass and place a hand behind your neck to pull you near, taking in your breath holding each so dear. I can feel your pulse and that sense of care, my soul caressed in conscience aware, you opened…

Waning Sun

When his lips touched hers the sun wept for the first time, leaving a crust-laden scar across it’s face. A star now slowly dying, their star now in creation. ~ Mark Thompson


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