It's Made Up

It's made up. Crumpled and out the window, past the teeth, into the light. Will it burst? Probably not. A bubble of thought-forms. Like fodder for the mind. Intangible and empty. It draws out blossoms of feeling. What dried up is carried out through the nozzle of the soul. Through a special slit. As if at night onto the bed dreams from a weary body shyly file out in a row. And by morning there's no trace. Made it up and … forgot.