I

The white chrysanthemums were sans Jude.

How curious these lavish planets tend, amidst 

the longing nettle waves that murmur sweetly,

petals entranced swaying soft infantile pearls.

Their beaks were lush with such childishness, 

And they were white, white chrysanthemums,their vague ipsums with endearing matters of possession, fruition of one two many juvenile kisses-

Yet scarce, these cauldrons languidly tasting the volition

of our idiosyncrasies and hearts, bearing gothic shrubs in between.

Could witness the colors drain away as imagined roses

Shed their inner bristles once perfused with the feelings of love 

blossom amongst the dérision of the white chrysanthemums,

Of young flesh teasing with sanguine half looks over a mourning moon,

And the testament of our stars feigning most bittersweet.

For these were white chrysanthemums, temperate 

And beguiled by our devotion

Ecstasies with blood, and the ceremonies

That lay breathless scorched by the tendril

of tristesses we had slowly come to adore.