The heady scent of milkweed flowers
Fills my skull to the brim
With memories of corn filled towers
And days of youthful vim
Those fragrant fields were free and fertile
Much like my young mind
That couldn’t grasp how fast I’d hurtle
Here, where I now find
Myself within a dismal prison
I designed so well
And every waving milkweed risen
Haunts me with its smell
As every hair begins to bristle
All along my nape
With urges that defy dismissal
And whisper of escape.