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
<p align='center'>I hugged a brittle stick the other night
The remnants of a friend.
A wheezing, gasping, floundering fish.
He sang in bursts..
but still, he sang.</p align='center'>
<B>I tried to fill his furrowed lines
Re-paint his hair jet-black
Inflated out his sullen shouders