poems of exile

With my mind in a solemn abyss of thought with no direct association to anything no new theories & no security or validity for the previous ones I still find an ordinary pleasure in placing the pen in my right hand & touching its tip to a blank page dispersing its ink shaping it into known hieroglyphs we've adapted as the written language. A vacant simplicity dictates this moment; a dedication to nothing a blank stare into the forum of meditation a swarm of boils in the existentialist batter.</P>Within the pit of society I look within.</P>