It was one of those
beautiful
English summer nights
when levitating
on the moonshine
of a moonlit world
was your entranced lucky
fate.
The lilac shimmer of silent
lakes.
The whisper of ghost fox
through your heartbeat.
But the toad in the hand
stank real.
Stank through his palpitating
skin.
Stank of fear.
Is the fabled hallucinogenic
touch of toads
just as Macbeth
witnessed
a hypnotising snare
of toxic apparition?
What thrilling doors of perception
...