The lifeless tendrils of her faded amaranth abate
in vicissitude of the verdure found within her Spring.
All plucked are her petals, as their douceur dissipates
and left is an unbloomed knosp of a madness enate.
Still those truculent turbid tendrils tangle around my chest
and try to feed on my tacit and altruistic manner.
Internecine and intransigent, I sometimes detest
those sciophilous, shady seeds that ever began her.
I shudder to think of poisons injected by her thorns
or the injury that one would endure from ingestion.
The vesuviation of variegation is forlorn,
revealing the verisimilitude behind beauty's deception.
There's a torpid tabefaction in this tryst of turgid shoots
and I'm wary of tatonnement in the tawdry tangles of Spring.
I will avoid the plants bearing the serpent's ripest fruits
and, like weeds, rip them up from their once roseate roots.