A lack of thought dictates my eyes-
these eyes of despair.
So, I dissect the rusted window frame,
with my dry fingers,
looking for a way out, but I can't leave.
I look around for an escape and see a canvas-
my only paint brush is my pen.
I write, cracking my wrists against the French easel,
but I keep writing until I'm freed.
Parched fingers, no longer.
Eyes of despair, no longer.