Upon an Apple Bough

Am I a gem wrapped in cotton balls,
or a worm, inside the flesh of an apple?
a red rose on a white canvas
or the endless devouring mouth of termites?

or the distending stains
on a blank sheets of whiteness?

Am I a masterpiece of art,
a paintbrush
that metamorphoses
to so many inclinations of silken tastes,
hanging on an apple bough?

a pen dipped in the ink of darkness
to imitate, to write of whiteness
while staining the white?

a blank canvas
chewed by the worms of colours?

or the tip of a plunging knife
stabbed deep
in the pages of a dictionary
searching for an impelling word?