The witchcraft of writing

I wish for my words to become an enchantment on this page
that will transport you, reader, to peculiar worlds.
To Caribbean havens, which you dream of in your bed
and wake cowering in your sheets, as your sleep is pillaged by cannibals.
For you to take the passenger seat on journey of America,
where burning ambitions light Atlantan roads, and blaze until they reach the Sushana.
For desires to scorch our view of the pyramids,
which are buried beneath bustling tents, machine guns, and her.
I wrote a tale, captured by the beauty of Russian winter,
which faded into back alley generators and chicken grease falling like rain.
The torture that I am told still lingers in salem,
in my writing becomes the high-pitched yells, that echo from Liverpool job centre.
How am I to cast this spell.
when I know nothing of witchcraft?
How am I to interest you, reader,
in a world that I am virgin to?


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