remix 17 (penultimate)

    (this is the room, each afternoon in Summer,
where I would meditate on Spring and Autumn,
and how they flow. (with hype around all flowers,
and rigor mortis tumbling through the trees.)

I'd say to myself, I want
reality (was a little
more than I
could stand)
and I would dream (of all
the different ways to die
in Winter).

just dare to even try
to make yourself
the predicate
to yourself

and the flow
of time.) might

        pop

for it's all a fiction (it's hollow)
if all words, and people,
get to be equal to
express nothing.(
    because you, and
    because I,
    like to follow
    the holy garbage of the trend, and the style.)

feedback 1 & 2

Edited