Am I Not a Child?

Something I penned a few weeks ago in response to this picture, whose image has remained with me ever since I saw it about a couple years ago:

Am I not a child
Whose limbs are sticks,
Whose face is a mask
Of bones?
Why are my eyes like dice
That roll in my head,
Opening and closing,
A physical plea,
A pitiful cry for mercy,
And I pray they fall on any number
That will be the vision of my salvation,
And I close them, and when they open,
Still I remain as dead?
Am I not a child?
Then why must I worry about death
And food and vultures?
Do children not have fat cheeks
And laughing eyes
Or greasy lips and chins
That form mischievous grins?
Are children not restless
And naughty and bright
And sprightly?
Why does my open mouth
Do nothing but plead
For simple nourishment
If I am a child?
If I am a child,
Why am I alone?
Am I not a child?