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