When the universe sets me on a course, the gravity blindly leads me to your voice.
Where there is no distance, no hour can keep me apart from what’s already written in my heart.

I’ve wandered with different names, I’ve forgotten the times where we’ve met.
And though our lives may turn and spin, my soul found you again.

Once our paths eclipse, all my eyes can see is you and my world quietly falls to second place.
I begin to wish that space holds me forever in that place.

I cast an eternal light that reveals my warm truth, but behind you a darker side of the moon.
Although we’ll never be the same, our stars still whisper each other’s name.

Fearless I may seem to be, when the day comes where my light fades and I move to another plane.
What truly scares me the most is knowing somewhere out there, a universe where we never meet.

Even if this cursed love is mine alone, it is still yours, l etched in the stars, carved into time.

Airborne  (Pt. III)
(The soaring heart of Jonathan Livingston Seagull)

Every ascent begins with exile.
To rise is to lose the flock,
yet find the wind waiting..
faithful, invisible,

  unafraid to hold you.

The breath that fills him is older than dust,
borne through  the reckoning
of one who first owned his own shadow..

Each atom refined,
each word made Light.

“To breathe is to bless,”
Jonathan whispers,

“for every breath must leave the world
cleaner than it arrived.”


His lungs remember Eden,
and the sky bends to his remembering.

Below, the drizzle hums its dull chorus..
the fat and the fed peck at comfort.
Jonathan breaks from the circle,
rising through their fog,
his wings burning clean in the cold.

“Fear not the thin air,”
he calls,
“for only those who hunger for height
will learn how mercy breathes.”


He learns the cost of air,
the ache of height..
and in that thin solitude
where only truth can breathe,
he knows at last
what it means to serve God
with the evil impulse:

   not by hiding it,
   but by turning it toward Light.

Before the Word becomes sound, it becomes breath.
And before breath becomes air, it remembers its Source.
This is the mystery of Jonathan..
the soul who learned that flight begins not in the sky,
but in the heart that has faced its own eclipse

  and has chosen to turn toward the Sun

I love to counting stars upon the bright sky,
whisper to the eternity about solitude

and in a ridiculous way,
your existence slips beneath my faith,

weeping away the bleeding inside me.

But I ask again and again,
"Am I worthy of this?"
"Am I worthy for you?"

and i beg not to be pitied,
because i believe that alongside love,
ease will come.


And you are sweet,
an answer to the quiet words of all my prayers,
the solitude that i keep searching for.

And I will seek the truth of it,
to know if i am worth it.


For i am the believer
of us meant to be,
beneath the same endless sky.

10 was old to 5,
30 unreal, and 60
Archaic. That was really
Magic.

When you age
Like a tree,
It takes roots that stretch to hell
To brace you against life's storms.

Knowing you have time to waste,
Knowing you'll waste it  -
This is worse than being old
Living in the shadow of the fact,
What remains.

Eventually the past will eclipse all light,
It will put out the Great Fire whose embers
Are the few remaining stars, and flames
Are the withering galaxies, and the rest is char.

Eventually, the Universe
Will go to sleep
Too.

An Exegesis on the Humiliation of the Word

The world is ruled by darkness.
What appears as harmless is theater,
what pretends neutral is already bent.
The macrocosm corrodes;
and in the microcosm, its reflection gleams..
even in places meant to be sanctuaries of truth.

A poetry site,
born as refuge for broken voices,
becomes another stage of control.
Here too the phrase resounds:

  neutralize the threat.

But neutralization is not annihilation.
It is paralysis.
It is psy-ops.

It is the removal of anxiety..
not a side-effect, but the aim itself.
Darkness builds its stage for this alone:
that the  "angel of light"
may drown his own reckoning
beneath a world of deception-built self comfort,
so he need never feel
the truth he already knows.
Comfort is his curtain,
numbness his crown..

  the removal of his own anxiety;
      his game.

This is why the world is his theater--
Darkness does not destroy at first..
it sedates, comforts, smothers.

Hence..
The whole world is his fully gaslit stronghold,
    ..for now.


Fade back into the moment--

The young poet arrives,
bringing her unspoken pain,
her hope for words to heal.
Instead, her very wounds are seized as footholds.
Hearts. Reposts. Endless affirmation.
Not to strengthen her voice,
but to redirect it.

She is seduced into belonging,
and her trauma becomes currency.
Unresolved, her ache entwines with lust--
a sacrifice prepared  for false altars.
The angel of light  has done his work:
offering inclusion without transformation,
belonging without responsibility,
“light” without source.
The poet is neutralized.
Her searching silenced,
her voice absorbed into fog.

Those who carry this fog
cling to cowardice.
Unable to face the judgment within,
they align themselves to the herd.
They replicate themselves,
so their refusal of Light
is never revealed--
perfectly exemplifying their "Great Example"


The microcosm mirrors the macrocosm.
What nations suffer,
individuals now endure--
   Comfort without clarity.
   Belonging without truth.
   Safety without healing.

Yet the living Word endures.
Every attempt to humiliate it
only makes its fire burn clearer.
Carriers of darkness can swarm,
******, and smother..

but they cannot create.

The true word cannot be erased.
Unfiltered, unedited,
spoken from a reconciled temple,

it pierces fog.

It reveals.
It heals.

And so we speak..
not for ourselves alone,
but for those who come searching,
hoping that poetry
might still be a place
where pain can meet truth,

where silence breaks,
where Light is not withheld
  but revealed.

🇮🇹 Sussurrare nel Silenzio
Nel silenzio non tutto tace.
Ci sono parole che non hanno suono,
eppure vibrano nell’anima
come onde invisibili.

È lì che ti cerco,
tra i respiri che non chiedono nulla,
tra le attese che non fanno rumore.

Sussurro al cielo
ciò che il cuore non osa gridare.
Chiamo la luce senza voce,
e lei mi risponde
con un abbraccio di calma.

Nel silenzio,
la verità non ha bisogno di spiegarsi.
È presenza,
è eco di un amore che non chiede… ma resta.

Così sussurro,
non per essere ascoltato,
ma per ricordare a me stesso
che anche nel vuoto
vive la voce dell’eterno.

— Masi Roberto © 2025


---

🇬🇧 Whispering in the Silence
In the silence not everything is still.
There are words without sound,
yet they echo in the soul
like invisible waves.

It’s there I search for you,
in breaths that ask for nothing,
in waits that make no noise.

I whisper to the sky
what my heart dares not shout.
I call to the light without a voice,
and it answers me
with an embrace of calm.

In silence,
truth needs no explaining.
It is presence,
an echo of a love that asks for nothing… yet remains.

So I whisper,
not to be heard,
but to remind myself
that even in the void
lives the voice of the eternal.

— Masi Roberto © 2025

I have seen that ME
Seeking for a trivial book
Whose sentiments mingled my soul

I have seen that ME
Wandering down the Quay Street
Where harmony was found in chaos

I have seen that ME
Falling in love with a lonely cloud
When the wind lies a paradise

I have seen that ME
Voyaging on waves of blue
Whom the young poet cried with

I have seen that ME
soaring as a kiwi bird
which died in eternity

Preface
This is not aimed at a single person, nor written for applause. It is a naming, a mirror, a reminder that truth spoken with accountability carries its own fire. The Witness belongs to anyone willing to bear that flame, even for a moment.


This is not accusation, but naming in clarity:
Projection is the currency.
The herd is the instrument.
Seduction is the method.
Obscurity is the shield.

  And when truth enters,
  it unsettles the herd.

The first defense is always the lullaby..
soft verses sung to calm the trembling,
to cradle the anxious back into sleep.
But the lullaby is no vision;
it is anesthesia, a narcotic of words.
It soothes so that no one questions
the darkness that holds them.

Yet the mantle descends where it will.
A word spoken in accountability burns like flame,
piercing the fog, shattering the spell.

Even for a moment, it breaks the hold
and shows the rulers for what they are:

      unclothed,

  powerless,

             undone.

I dreamt we were in bed
Your arm draped lazily over me
tangerine glow dripping
down your velvet face. You marveled
at the earth-shattering gravity
of our coming moments, subtle smile brightening
your sleepy eyes, "how did we get here?"

          how did i get here?

In dreams, you're all of it,
all of yourself, the best parts
of me, everything
that made me clutter past
lovers into this small space
in my heart.
In dreams, you're everything
I've ever loved about everyone
I've missed— the Frankenstein
father my daughter will never have—
          But you're not real,
You only exist in the perfect space my brain's created
out of the fragments you left.

Maybe in a way, I loved you— absent from eternity;
out of gratitude for opening
my heart to the idea of love
with anyone who saw me
enough to feel it— Gratitude

for allowing me to love
myself candidly
in my revival.

I hold space for that

I still live in your shadow in some ways,
creeping through
the memories this town has
of you,
leaving my own behind
in my imminent departure.

I'll never be absent of you
I'll never be absent of you