It looks just like a rose.
Smoky shadows sharp contrast within the blooms,
Lines of black buried in rosy red,
Skin-soft swells that curl upward, inward, then blossom out again.

It sounds like summer thunder.
One stark, still-shattering strum.

It tastes like ash, bitter black, and smells like panicked fear.
It feels like winter’s heart, and a summer morning.
For half a heartbeat, it masquerades as marvellous.
It’s nothing.
Senseless violence.
It’s death.