I died in the Malaysian Incident

There she  finds him 
in the Hall of Lost Remembrance
Finds him lost among the arts there
Finds him
wanting . . . something

she can't remember how to speak
Can't remember . . . what words are for
Can't remember . . .
Turns to face him . . . puzzled

she says
“How is it young one
that I do not hear you?”

You do not hear me because I am not here

“How is it I see you
touch you
Know the look of your face
But I cannot know your heart . . . ?”

You can not touch my heart
Because I no longer have one
You can not touch my thoughts
Because my thoughts are my own

“How can this be
I have no small talent in this 
How can this be?”

I died in the Malaysian Incident
was dead for the longest time
in fact was never brought all the way back
And so I feel nothing
nothing at all
I walk through the hole in the zero of everyday

“Young one
should I feel pity for you?”

No more than for any other survivor
And a part of me still wonders
Are all survivors are worthy?

They stand silent for a small eternity
Looked upon by the twisted art wreckage 
The tortured memories of a by gone day

He holds forth a slip of parchment
She takes it
Holds it to the light
And finds the poem written there
By this young machine

William C. Burns, Jr.