Were my feet made of thorns,
I could climb my way out.
Were my arms rich with feathers,
I could fly my way home.
If my eyes could see through darkness,
I could envision a guided path.
If my mind could rearrange my thoughts like a jaded jigsaw puzzle,
I could strategize an escape.
But hopelessness draws me in.
My knees bent towards my chest,
One curved neck-held-head hides in between.
I am sadness,
I am pity,
I am lost.