I sharpen my handsupon the Eighth Pentacle, hammering repetitioninto something worthy. When the work was done, I climbed high enoughto see The World, a circle without edges,spinning beyond my certainty.
The flavor of your love feels different.Not because I’ve known it,but because I haven’t. Yet somehowmy body rememberswhat my hands never touched. When you speak about poetry,something restless wakes inside
A creator wakes up every day and checks analytics before breakfast—not out of curiosity, but out of necessity. This is no longer just a habit; it reflects how work itself
When mind, body, and heart align,one truth quietly appears:the soul is not pure light,but a mixtureemotion, intelligence, fleshpoured into form.Empty words.Empty body.Empty mind.Empty soul.And stillthere is nothing wrong with emptiness.Emptiness
Who says a poem must be meaningful?Who decides our words must mirror our lives?Who decrees that promises must survive time?Anyone can speak in empty wordsand swear by promises made to
Di bawah pohon tandus aku menatap langit Tanpa payung, aku kuyup, seperti daun kering yang disiram Cinta seorang nenek terhadap tanamannya Mata tak terbendung, air terjun turun begitu deras Menatap
Beneath his heart,a hunger grows.not to survive,but to feel alive. He walksbetween two realms:the one within,and the one that refuses to understand it. The cosmos does not answer.It only rearranges
Mandala Kata-KataAku berhenti sejenak, pejamkan mataBerdialektika di dalam kalbuSambil, menyerahkan diriKe bantalan rima, diksi dan puisi Kubiarkan kreatifitas terbang bebasSeperti Sehabis giting dengan daun suciYang tumbuh di dada, bukan tanahMelayang,
As I bend the realityEverything is alignedI deconstructed the cosmicMy tongue dwells into realityHeaven and hell falling apartThe shadow made an apology“What a disguise”, I saidAll animals distinctThe Jinn vanishedThe