Tu

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You are the birth place
And the death bed
You are the sweet peas
And the hand that picks them
You are Kafka’s Metamorphosis
And the apple in his side

However, you are not the tears in those eyes
Or the dress on the bed
Or the lonely star in the Vietnamese flag
And certainly you are not the teeth on the carcass

It is possible that you are the sun under the sea
Maybe even the fox at the little prince meadow
But you are not even close
To being the cold New York winter snow

It might interest you to know
Speaking in the plentiful truth
That I am the girl from the
Moulin Rouge

I also happen to be the vampire pumping life not to die
The morning paper news at the door
And the craziness behind the ear of Van Gogh
I am the mud by the river
And silence in the soul
But don’t worry I am not the
Birth place and the dead bed
You always be Kafka’s Metamorphosis
And the apple in his side
You will always be the sweet peas,
Not to mention and some how
The hand that picks them