Dan Reynolds Poems
Comments about Dan Reynolds
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
I like the look of that. Victorian, possibly.
A wooden musical fruit bowl, 'Shall we bid? 'Yes I agree.
It looks nice in the photos, such sculpted marquetry
And looking at the bottom, distressed and worn, you'll do for me.
A week we waited nervously, behind the screen we hid