Writing is a blessed curse,

Imagination veils my sight;

Transforming most mundane of things

to figmentations of pure fright.


Winding creeper takes on fangs,

Becoming Mowgli-seeking Carr,

The jungle spreads beneath my feet

With vipers seeking flesh to Mar.


Honey-tongued and forked mischief,

Whispers of forbidden fruit

Whilst over growing temples peep

from canopies stuffed full of loot.


For so it goes for writer’s eyes,

Glimpsing intrigue where there’s none:

Even when its cold and drear

We can, do- conjure up the Sun.


© Tom Tide 2017



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