Natasha Bedingfield

There was a time when I was glory, when I was.

There were times when I could eat, could feel the berries falling like hail into my body.

There were times, were times.

But those times went away.

Went above and below and within, but they would never come out, ever again.

Because I am no longer glory, am no longer berries. I can no longer feel the precipitation seeping through the roof.

Tamper with me if you like, tamper with dials and wires and switches, but I am not a machine.

I am post-war.

Obstructed by air and drenched in stagnant waters.

I am not made of components.

Constructed with grayness and flowers.

I am not made of components.

Soon all the world will see.

See me with the valley of flourish.

Inside it is my village of snow.

Inside the houses are children learning their outdated maths and history.

There is also a frozen lake on which the lovers skate and dance eternal (this is my last broken fragment).

Take me upwards, and you stay grounded.

But you refuse, and instead we both glue our soles to the grass and are too afraid to kill the blades.

You used glue made of berries.

So I was stuck in everlasting moonlight. You passed so soon. I will stay. You rot and become dark.

I will end and you will die. There is a difference.

I will not exist anymore, but you will decompose. Therefore I will not exist anymore.

I am not made of components.