I write

I write for no one;

I write for everyone.

My poems are here,

but not in place and time.

They live for me;

they are dead when I am gone.

The words will dissolve 

in the caustic vat of time.

So why do I write these 

words of mind and soul?

It is a compulsion;

It is an addict’s dreadful curse.

Or perhaps it is a way to

prove the determinists wrong.