100 Words Only
I am forever young and forever old, from everywhere and from nowhere, memories muddled and memories clear: so many and yet all too few. Yesterday, indiscernible from today or tomorrow, for where there is no time, there is no matter. I am akin to some wild thing that comes into its own bloom but once a year, hidden in the Woods of the Wounded Sparrow. The cruel irony, partners: decay and decadence, dance in frenzied quickstep to Rimsky-Korsakov’s, “Flight of the Bumblebee”, while onlookers: the moon and stars, rule over my endurance: longing to be found and recognized, not saved.
“I am a collection of dismantled almosts.”
― Anne Sexton, Anne Sexton: A Self-Portrait in Letters
Video – The poem, “I Am”, written by John Clare, read by Tom O’Bedlam.