Rotting Apples Blossom

Trotting-
If not footsteps
What falls upon the world
Is surely heaven
Exuding from paper-clipped stars
Cheeky heavens scars
Or pieces of the sky?

Natures sole in droplets
Scruples of dreams
Fragments of other days
Or bodings of time spent so ill?
And conceived as
Rotting apples
On verge of blossom

Succulent the tendrils
Of flavors savored dribble
Down chins of men with
Whiskers for smiles
And blushed bosoms to
Take apples from

But apples rotten
Blossom no nearer bosoms
Than footsteps are conceived

As falling heaven-skies.