Do You Surreally Want To Hurt Me, By Sub-Culture Club? Poem by Dan Reynolds

There is a place that follows those who seek
to paint a thought with words upon a page.
A place, sometimes opaque, sometimes oblique,
a bridge between the stupid and the sage.

A gallery within a gentle gaze
from which to view the futures of the past
A dream within a dream within a haze
that hangs down from a maudlin mizzenmast.

A place like purgatory for lost odes
where pirates, ghosts and angels chew the fat.
Where virgin paths become well-trodden roads,
where Tiny Tim could be an acrobat.

Imagine such a place, and all its charms,
next time you wake within your muse’s arms.