has fallen
high from the tree
rolling on the ground
unhinging from the branch

in a spiraling dance
with bruises underneath
the shiny red skin

if you poke with a finger
you can push it right in
this skin turns to *****
hanging by a thread

in a soft brown-like mash
no man will take
fallen as it is

so, it lies in the shadows
of the apples that clung
food for the mother rat
and her young

gnawing on the flesh
chewing it like gum
ants blanket the little left
not a sign of it now

as apples die fast
they never die loud