am i no more than a moth in a cage?
a moth born of silk who lives just four days;
my life’s work in words would not fill a page,
yet heavily so does the brunt of them weigh.

am i no more than a fish in a bowl?
a fish meant to swim in the oceans of old;
my potential withers as time cuts a toll,
and my scales and gills soon crawl with mold.

am i no more than a bird in a store?
a bird with dim feathers and wings ever-sore;
what should come innate does not anymore,
and never will i be as i was before.