Dan Reynolds Poems

The Day of Days approaches soon,
the advent of the Blackened moon,
accompanied by maudlin tune.
We wait for the result.
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What may today's self seeking search unearth?
And at what time, precisely will it start?
Will we uncover anything of worth
and find a way to share it, through our art.
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Between the night and the day beyond
along the banks of the Pixies’ Pond
the Banshees break their sacred bond
and make their way back home
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Another sacred cow has just gone mad
Another failed fanatic waits in line
Another mother guards the tears she had
Another river bleeds in triple time
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The mirror only offers us... reflection,
inverting down the axis, what is there.
So left is right across this intersection.
We never see in it, what others share.
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Why would there be one single, sacred source?
One muse with different guises to direct
each poor poetic soul upon their course
along the path to share their intellect?
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She took a leaf from off her favourite tree
and held it to the light within her heart.
The pictures it portrayed of what may be
were sadly lacking that one vital part.
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What kind of things could make a grown man cry?
To cry in public, not just to himself.
What lacrimatic views must pierce his eye,
unleashed by secrets hidden on that shelf?
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'Did they take the your leg off, recently? '
'Last December.' He replied.
Then, began a long paragraph of emotional ping-pong.
Describing his treatments and cities he'd been to...
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Has anybody else questioned the dawn
and wished, for once, the sun would hide its face?
In reverence for all those who have gone
somehow, the lack of cloud seems out of place.
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