Storm clouds

Sometimes the bluest of skies rolls by ever so slow and gracefully, and it leaves me wondering, Will a storm ever come by again? ~ Mark Thompson


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

Fuck you

Wearily I laugh at the racist jokes my ignorant, tunnelled-brother tells, as I fear my voice will take on none whilst my truth resides in darkened swells. I fear that if I reached deep down into that deep and cavernous well – that not yet a dam of bursting pour, that I will find that…


Herded cattle, eyes on glass, ears plugged in. A bustling train – 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…

Sweet refrain

In sweet refrain she found herself observing that which held her back, by taking pause to reflect upon her inner voice – the right, the wrong. From within, she searched and found a treasure held in sunken chest, a heart that beats in love, not pain, beneath her fears, in sweet refrain. ~ Mark Thompson

The Banyan Tree

The banyan tree danced in gentle sway long before this urbanised decay took its place; the selfish choice of man, with a need for more – a master plan? The banyan grew in twists of knowing, knotted in fear; man’s need for growing, and whilst now saved from the sap-drenched axe, others made way for…


She was his North. ~ Mark Thompson


She was the extra-hot expresso. Her taste kick-starting his day – her petite, aromatic dance tantalising his taste buds, picking him up with a playful bite to his lip. She was the heat he knew, the heat he loved and cherished. Each and every morning, each and every day. ~ Mark Thompson

Heart of gold

Her heart’s not of gold as a good heart should be. It was molded from birth through ash-filled past days, mistakes and dismay. Through times so unjust, fear-fuelled through mistrust, dripping muddy-teared faces and tempting memory erases. The lessons now known gave her heart the way, in compassionate trust to see through the storm, to…

Just right

She was Papa Bear’s porridge. Too damn hot to be any good, making her all kinds of right. Goldilocks, it would seem, clearly fucked up. ~ Mark Thompson