The scent of silence is fickle and changing.

How it doth smell depends on the setting:

Under the moonlight as one sits with a lover,

Silence smells of roses, a faint, wafting

Scent that glides on the breeze.

Then the rose dies and the scent turns to blood

As I sit and I wait for some terror to pass—

A twister, a gunman, yelling so crass—

I stop to wonder how can be that

This silence, once sweet, is now so deadly.