Afield

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.