She told me we used to be good, some of us at least.
She told me of myself.
She told me our hands used to create visions of understood truths
and carry justice above our heads
the owners of awkward and fossilized stories
told again and again for the sake of knowing.
I have been asked when this body will stand for itself,
for they speak volumes of misunderstood lines
plagiarize thoughts without knowing that
nothing will live underneath a buried voice.
A tailored body does not speak.
A mime does not produce song.
Your data may never step forward to claim a soul.
We look for each other now.
All scattered, sung as mined jewels.
The new owners of our names
have bid high for these stories, sunk low for these songs.
I still have memories of fresh beginnings.
She woke up holding stories in her eyes.
I have been searched for what I already know.