Is it a century, a year or just a month

Since beginning of the rhyming trance?

I rhyme aloud needlessly at least once

During each day, at any casual chance.

Kindle... Might spark an eternal flame,
Quenchless, which water shall not tame.

Spindle... collects thread woven by time,
Yarn of events red, black, of war, of crime,
Occasionally with specks of gold, of chime,
Of harmony, of hope, of love defying time.
Cold white snow is mixed with spilled blood

Of people trusting and naive, treated like mud.

Dark flowers are gifted to theater, the fane of beautiful art,
Dancers strike on the day when child was slain like a mart.
Time... is not a simple straightforward fated line,
For fates do not deny your free will and choice,
and everybody in the flow of future has a voice.
Neither it is an evergrowing tree with many branches,
For it would have required of each ever made decision to cut off forever some future possibilities with precision.

No, it is a complex net, intertwined, akin to cellulose in wood or paper from which an origami of panda had in France stood,
And while, inlike a tree, it adds the possibility of several different ways between two points, it also allows to add the restriction

Of unavoidable points, which have to be passed through, no matter what you change, no matter what you try to do; in fiction,
These points can be foretold by a prophecy, in hopes that people listen to what Seers say, and find the best to the coming junction way,
Though some, in their arrogance, do not see the many possibilities, and try to create their own into possible future path,
But the node, akin to a black hole, twists the approaching realities, and does not shatter under strain unlike a ball of glass.
In science, albeit inexact and blind, rarely ever by the history tried, for against experimentation on humans most of societies are allied,
Such crucial nodes are considered as revolutions between socio-economic structures, either already seen somewhere or by utopians foretold,
And as of the future they are unable to comprehend the vague shapes in swirling mist of everchanging times, these dreams have a strong hold Over hearts of people even as their minds calculate the future, using assumptions of the past, not noticing that changes slowly the future mold Into shapes unseen, which differ from what has been, as much as thestral, unicorn, centaur are different from horse and camel; but let it be told That no magic is required to thus defy the expectations of generations old of future coming; technology can have wizards of its own making...
Still, these dreams, even when they are wrong, with the society and the people rightfully belong, allowing of the most likely path forsaking,
Allowing variety and the strangest of history twists and repetitions, beautiful in their unlikeliness, paradox, contrast of unicorn and lion side-by-side.
I wish I could live without any time spent to sleep, but I am in melancholy so hopeless, dark and deep, that I have no strength of will left in myself to fight

For my imagined, small, and inconsequential right without any sleep to spend, reading-typing, a night, without painful, offending the eyes bright blue light.
Radio-gramophone... Musical box... For me it's reminder of bitter loss.

My temples throb with headache, and it's my fault for going into cold

Without cardigan, jersey or scarf, only with wind-jammer and gloves,

It was my by old habit made choice, swayed by sun's seemingly warm gloss.
The headache pounds within my skull,

The pain of it with time growing dull.

My forced calm becomes void and null,

As each death pierces the mind's hull.

How can you possibly at a human fire a shot?

How can you cruelly a sentient life cut short?

How can you, in French, 'donner la mort'?
Mountain blue mockingbird, creation of snow and ice, whirling in the drifting mist, weaving the ironwork...
Inky black wave dances in loops, combing the white deserted sand, as it ignores the salt figures around...
An ugly tree toad, amidst dead leaves, nearby a small mushroom calmly sits; it's not a toad's cap, but an earth-star,
And a toad's eye can be found beneath the surrounding endless carpet of leaves.
It is not in a batch, precious is almost alone, and if not for the guardian, it would as stone

Be defenseless; but as true as flint, the toads sits on the chicken egg until the time it shall hatch.
I am in a quite good mood, I am feeling upbeat, I have eaten again this salad of root of beet,

Even though there might be of my blood a bit, for celestial food this dish still scores a hit.
I would have had to have got a heart of flint to ignore of any human's pain or suffering hint;
I would rather have all tea spiced with mint than see suffering of those to whom true as flint

I am, and will be; to wring water from flint I hope I will have to, being not of a greedy tint.
River flows of scorching lava and radiant molten sunbeams...

Spider ensnared does weave for others plenty of tracery webs...

Sometimes, I wish I could die, so that I would no longer have to hear

Nasty insults carelessly thrown around at the people I hold dear...

But for their future, which could be more dire, I feel arresting fear;

As people uselessly each other apart viciously, painfully tear...

Batty and berry sitting in a tree, and I am one of the people few,

Smiling at them with unhidden glee, without the rose-coloured hue,

Taking pride in being still free, forbidding romance my life to imbue,

From green rich leaves of the tree; even as my eyes far into desert flew,

Torn were roots of my tree, as explosions from my past unchecked grew,

Reminding of fee for so-called bliss: destructive storms which will brew...

Sometimes, often, I wish I grew up in hell, then I would not know how love to feel, I would not have ever felt of others pain, it's a curse, not a blessing, being an empath...

Sometimes, often, I wish I was a raindrop, then I would not know bonds to others, I would freely roll down the withering tree, feeling no at all pain, simply a drop of the rain...

Sometimes, often, I wish I was invisible, then I would not be seen suffering from other's pain, even as I would give up, and no longer myself restrain, they would not use me to amplify the ambient pain...

To waste time, efficiently... Why does not anybody see the humour of that line? Preparing elaborated masterpieces, as if everything was all right, better than fine...

Earth, friend of fire and flame, of the great serpent, trains swift seeking wind, notes the bursts of flames, not knowing their cause is the bond, one of a kind; let the water disappear, let the bond reappear...

Casual comments are those which hurt the most;

Sometimes, often, I wish I could become a ghost,

Who could run far away, in no fear of being lost,

And allow heart to go still, behind the hoar frost...

River flows of scorching lava and radiant molten sunbeams...

Spider ensnared does weave for others plenty of tracery webs...

Glistening are drops of dew and boiling water, glitters the metal

That vedure of grass sheared, but lives and deaths had not decided...

Pain given by crimson powder, blood of the moon and bluebell fire...

Of haunted house, dusty past, deadly game it is description poor...

Dead walking among the living, given the second chance...

Death welcome instead of living, given ever such chance,

Glad I would have been to take, had I known this dance

Death would give me: instead of loneliness, beautiful waltz...

Red feather flying with thunderstorms, untouched by lightning...

Blue feather torn and lost, left behind in frenzy of the war...

Do I have a heart, a soul, a conscience? I don't know myself.

I thank the mild fever for the strange recurring hallucination

Which does not allow me to calmly rest, as a book on a shelf,

And instead pokes me to write, and boisters my imagination.

Flight of green wolves into black tattered sunset... Can you imagine it? Dark rainy day, smell of thunderstorm and lightning in the clouds, as ghostly greyish-green wolves fly through them,

Fly towards the scorched curtain of sunset, tearing it with claws into frayed stripes, disappearing into the night, setting free beings of death: raven and bat, soothsayer, black swan and grim.

Can you see it? Long lost image... Not a century passed, and artist was forgotten... Wet eyes... Are they red?.. I don't see in the night... How can I get the blind man to see of stars the light?

Can you feel it? Human, not sage... It's a vicious, cruel circle, hardly ever ending loop of two or three sleepless people irritated by any noise into yelling at each other, caring not for ears.

Can you hear it? Lion in a cage...

Its growling is fuelling the fire underneath the stage

It treads on, wood boards turning into coals

Confused, I furrow my brow.

They repeat words spoken long ago:

A girl can t spoil herself, you know.

I consider their thinking to be slow.

Human can spoil himself, you know.

It's all about choosing where you go:

Downward with the surrounding flow,

Sideways to stars into which you trow,

Upwards stubbornly as a strong tow...
But if this song of ours does not contain a single thought,

Why should it be then, please tell me, sung, to air taught?

Because logic is not the only corner stone of the world,

Because logical people should have escape in death sought

To avoiding destroying nature, earth, their entire world

When seeing the acrid mess into which they have by now got.

There are in human powers of which he has not the least suspicion, and if the times are hard - then clench together your teeth, it is not easy to compose your of life song.

But if the human is dead as stone,

If the human has not a lively bone,

Why should he by Earth be borne,

Why should he by light be shone?

Because who are you to condemn the dead,

Who are you to decide they shouldn't be fed,

Who are you to be sure that they shall be glad

And welcoming the death with a stretched hand?

If the thieves walk in the cloudy skies,

What are we doing here, on Earth?

We are restoring the torn apart ties,

Restoring nature and humanity both.

And the judge says that the point is in the law, yet the priest that it is in love. But by the light of lightnings it becomes clear of each and every one hands are stained with blood.

I have seen the classified maps, I know whither we sail. Captain, I have come here to bid farewell to you, to you and your steam ship.

Somebody said that having multiple personalities is akin to having several different souls, replacing each others from time to time,

But I would describe the feelings as shattering the crystal orb into fragile sharp shards, separating balanced light into bright rainbow,

Bright rainbow, akin to the one created by shining sun in falling rain, tears of Gaia's pain, an eyes-hurting bridge to places unknown,

To places unreachable, wished for, desired deeply by heart, yet unattainable, conflicting against each other - reap what you have sown,

Observe from the sideline as your soul is shattered into shards, and shards are reduced to fine dust, painful to inhale, for yourself mourn.

I dislike both the cancer, the tumour, the illness plaguing the humanity for reasons often unknown, and the chemistry, the forced unreliable cure,

I dislike both the early, unexpected, untimely, hardly ever earned death, and the artificial, stringent, painful, destructive, synthetic, brewed health,

I prefer life natural, health earned by not destroying environment thoughtlessly, by not attacking people needlessly; I prefer health and life pure,

As water in mountain stream, not distilled, not kettle-finished, with salts, fishes, plants, stones and microbes, of freedom the unforgettable allure.

I am feverish and restless,

Brave, naive, and reckless,

Thoughtless and careless,

Insouciant, also heedless,

Acting flippant

And nonchalant,

Not at all gallant...

I wish I was a rousette flying in the night,

My stressed eyes are hurt by bright light,

I wish I had strength to rise up and fight,

My goals long disappeared from my sight.

Separate the closest star, the brightest sun, from its crown, helmet and plume, suck it dry, until it's white, and throw away the shriveled of orange husk...

Laugh at the passing car of white-and-blue passing down the calm amidst fume, wish them luck with useless task as in the world it is of the wars dusk...

You used to cry wolf, to order others around, to lift all the heavy weight... You silently cry in pain, merely smarling aloud, bear of loneliness freight.

You are buried deep in the ground, under the soil, You are killing people who under knowledge toil Of you, and their lives you quickly thwart and foil,

What are you? Known as gold jewel, acting as mine. Your of deaths score would cause them recoil From you, replacing thoughts of the possible spoil.

I listen to words of others, and then repeat them as if they were my own,

Sometimes I wish I could fly far away into the deep, with pearl stars, skies,

Sometimes I wish I could in a nameless shallow calm river slowly drown,

Sometimes I wish I could avoid knowing that each second somebody dies,

Sometimes I wish I could know how to reap exactly what I have sown,

Then I wish I could, like Gamayun of sorrow, the world change with my cries.

For the world I shall grieve as I do not forgive, I do not forget:

Both mine mistakes, and those of others, I shall forever regret.

Sometimes, mostly when I am alone, I am grinning widely, without an apparent reason for such happiness, like a loon.

Those who see me, who might notice my grin, must be thinking, assuming, guessing that I am over the full bright moon.

But it would be an error; downwards I am spinning quickly, without a parachute the flight might already be over soon.

Neither my friends nor my enemies would win, over my 'death', any fame or wealth, peace or health, or any other boon.

But still, something in this world, reality is pinning me down, to sadness and grief, mourning early at morn, eve and noon.

I wish I had seen cascade of water from a lin, falling drops, mixed with my tears for both innocent child and cunning coon.

I wish I could become one with the wind, the gale, the storm, the lightning falling from the clouds, flying in the air like a ball,

I wish the gravity would no longer me bind; of tale, lost form then wearing I would adopt shrouds, gladly, if chance did call.

As kindle smothered by bitter smoke of older flame,

To single an offered hand I would consider fair game,

And ingle I wish I could have been, but all the same,

To mingle reality and dream is not my mood, my aim,

A spindle of fates spins, laying upon my future claim.

If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.

If wishes were poems, dreamers would write

Of wishes whole odes, and each - one-of-a-kind.

Robot can be scared like a child,

Crying is great exercise,

Speaking of piano and food crisis,

Roads into impossible it can find,

Sounding randomly wise...

I have been walking in a desert, my skin is hot and dry,

It craves for cold water, yet richly spiced food you fry,

It is delicious, this fact I neither can nor wish to deny.

There is nobody around to guide me, to show me where myself to aim,

As I am running towards cars blindly, there is nobody but me to blame,

Bicycle whistles past my ears sharply, I am wheezing as I continue to run,

The sun is shining from the sky brightly, as I wish there fell a freezing rain,

A downpour, a thunderstorm almighty, to destroy those who honesty claim,

To run freely, to fly quickly and lightly, to sweep away restraint and bound,

Which had kept everyone fixed tightly, to release nightmare and hellhound...

Is peace too much to wish for? Apparently, amidst the humanity it is unfeasible.

Is solitude the end I should seek? Difficulty of speaking with others is incredible.

It is as if I was speaking Greek, for my attempts at compassion solely cripple Carcasses of undead love reeking of anger and accusations, and already feeble.

The embers of both love and anger, care and envy, self-reliance and competition are smouldering, warm by touch, still,

It seems to me, it is felt by me, that I feed, live on insults, spoken aloud or imagined somehow, in my presence,

It seems to me, it is felt by me, that I am energized, heartened

I wish it was not complete, I wish it could forward go,

I know neither the history, the past, nor the future dawning on us, on humanity,

I am not one for adventure, I prefer a walk quiet, slow,

I wish for silence and peace to last, but in dream of eternal peace lies insanity,

I avoid tragedy, though the Death I shall deeply hallow,

I seemingly enjoy drama and angst, disliking useless pain, bestead by urbanity,

I am against sacrifices 'for greater good', their seesaw,

I prefer seeing underneath the underneath, and avoiding pointless lies and vanity.

I feel that I am running around as one headless chicken,

As my resolve to win, to live, to survive starts to weaken,

But still, a threat to others will cause my heart rate quicken,

And pointless torture still would me certainly quickly sicken...

I am sneezing a lot, this whole morning, half a dozen times by this time,

Who is speaking somewhere about me, as if I have committed a crime?

They think they have learnt to evade and dodge the punches by them thrown,

That the time of fights and the experience of snarls their skill noticeably hones,

But blood flows like water from deep gashes unseen, their health has not grown,

Their eyes are blinded by the past, by red haze of danger which is felt in bones.

I feel like a raw oat in the moist soil waiting for the hopefully coming spring,

I feel like a small boat sinking in sea, waiting for break of the tearing string,

My absurd fearlessness will surely, inevitably be soon, very soon my undoing,

Since many a threat to me is outside of the house quickly and steadily accruing,

The house of cards will fall apart in the midst of many a terrible storm brewing,

Black spades might be the card in my hands when all is scattered far and wide...

Silent tears shed, unseen and falling down, bitter with salt, from the living beings gasping for breath like a fish on the white hot sand,

The coral reefs are rotting, turning brown, their beauty lost for the next generation, beauty of black and red corals, of butterfly fishes...

Have you ever seen among the fishes clown? From the change there is no salvation, for the climate change is coming and it is too late

To stop completely, to prevent the climate change, the global warming. Annihilation of the world as we know it shall happen with time,

And we can only try to have some reserves, living memorials of the past, by grasping the specimens of the ecosystems which disappear too fast,

By remembering the beauty, and being able to recreate, restore it, when the environment becomes less harsh to them, and acid is removed

From this world, however difficult it is to achieve... Grandness of corals you can hopefully perceive; no reason for deliberate destruction of them I can fathom.

I am afraid that I may be troubling the mindless hungry fearsome beast by striking my head against the corners of the dark, escapeless cave,

But I hope to destroy the fragile frozen beauty of silken weave that holds us all in sticky tangled web by my incessant rolling forward wave,

To free the moving beauty of the dreams and possibilities and random chances growing into an ageless tree, to once again the dream save

From ugliness of stone statuette and deadly stillness of mummia, to crush the good intentions which may somehow the road to hell pave...

I wish real life could be as simple as accruing some gold

And leaving to the far away rosy lands of beauty untold,

Beauty praised, and sung of, by the snow white swans

In their last song, by the frozen lake, in their last dance,

As grim death then takes them, by a plot or by chance,

They sing of the fairy beauty, and of the fateful glance

Which can only be seen by an innocent, pure soul once...

No, I have not done a turnaround; I am still in the stance

Of fighting the world, protecting, when I have a chance,

My family, those dear to me. But this vision, this trance

Is a nice, fascinating tale to forget myself in, for once...