All they see is a white rose,
White and unblemished.
To them, the thorns are dulled
And hardly even there.
They poke and **** it,
Hoping or seeking to find
At least some sort of gray
Among its pure white petals—
And they find nothing.
So they sit back contentedly,
Satisfied to watch this white rose
Bloom to its full extent.

But they do not see.

For inside this rose of snow
Is a bud of blood.
The inside of this blood bud
Is black and rotting,
Withering and dying.
The taint has begun to work its way
Through the needle-thin veins
And is carrying its gray
To the tips of the petals.

And still they see nothing.
Still they see only unblemished white.