Dan Reynolds Poems
My Old School.
He couldn't go back
to his old school,
the bastards had knocked it down
Tore away his memories
his triggers to his past
and as an afterthought
rebuilt, renamed, and
reneged on their promise.
No more broken stained glass mosaics
no more shiny loo roll
no more lighting bunsen burners
from statically charged fingertips
no more prickly bushes
no more beatings, heading home
no more spittle-flicking
on the blazer backs in front.
No more wistful gazing
to the girls' school o'er the road
He picked out from the rubble
The Pawnbroker's Reward
She traced the salty track across her cheek
in search of any source that she may stem.
Her quest revealing nothing so unique
as did the secret hidden in that gem.
To laymen this may be an amethyst,
of no great value in the broadest sense.
A trifling trinket tied around her wrist