I am seemingly in the middle of everything,
of each and every humans' strife and conflict,
I might be cursed with some awful bad luck to live in interesting times like a sitting duck.
The times indeed are interesting, the middle, the turning point, though probably merely one of the many revolutionary crises that wipe out magnificent cultures of conservative beings.
I read of one of the last humans on Earth, the last guardian of Earth, long-living, wearing a mask, stronger than a vampire bat, tolerant and peaceful, eyes one icy blue and one warm hazel...
I read of the planet Earth turned into a museum, a tourist attraction, a zoological garden, a reserve of wilderness, a zone of wars, and returning, evolving beings of old folklore and fairy tales.
Goes away the Earth... Dying and soon will be dead... Return to your home. Festival is ended and the night begins. Enjoy silence. Learn to understand stillness. Fading colours and sounds.
War was lost by Earth... And as frightened bird, hope speeds away. And so do we, we go away, we leave our ship, scurrying away like rats... Night rises, night approaches, darkness is upon us.
Through the hills, through the mountains, through the years of time, by the hot stones, old faithful hellhound runs, forgotten by his oldest friend, him and his friends and allies to find and defend.
How long will it take to load the gate, to create the portal, to start the carnival of animals unseen,
of creatures that might have been, because of cookies forgotten in the void, abyss between?
It's a mistake to attempt a flash, it becomes frozen and you have to begin anew,
as the glitches are not as rare as you have been led them to view,
somewhen hard rocks I would probably even agree to later chew
To free the place from encumbrance of useless decoration, which consumes time and work, akin to a black hole in far away space consuming stars and planets approaching the brink of death.

About my helplessness, uselessness to myself, others, Earth, I stew.
I am dead on my feet,
I have frozen midstep,
I might not even take a hit
before falling down the cliff steep
into tired, dreamless sleep
of exhaustion; wearily I could try to leap
but powerless, I would uselessly weep.
It is quite depressing way the newcomers to greet
who have dared - and managed - to take the plunge deep
enough to find the rhymes, the lines of diary, and bid good day - or night -
to the writer who might put to sleep
the most active people, the most fleet,
by endless repetition. Or would you say that it is not boring for you when even I sleep, instead of writing it, may?
I prefer not to get much sleep, anyway.
Sleep is boring, at least, without dreams,
and it is mostly dreamless for me, or so it seems;
I would not notice if I was forgetting the dreams.
A million and one reasons to keep on living?
I don't see them; or maybe, I still do, though I do not see how the life is worth living.
I live not for myself, but for my family,
our friends, the Earth, our home:
I fear I would not be able to help if I left,
so I stay even as I'm afraid that I bring more harm than good.
Was a solar-powered subway car seen moving, without a human inside,
after sunset on the dome?
Acid in my eyes, ants under my eyelids,
gasping for my breath,
short gasps through lips. No, thank you, I am not in perfect health.
What has been the irritating substance in the act, some poison dour?
No. It has not brought me, or anybody else inhaling it, close to death.
It was simpler, and yet quite difficult to contain when spilled - flour.
And that's merely one mistake in the life in this world I lead.
Is it surprising that I wish in other world to live? In one of those about which I read,
even if vastly different from what I remember, even in unknown place and undetermined time I would like to tread.
I am surprised, though I should be not,
that only a few visitors I have by now got,
and not one of them has left a review,
but it's not like the story is long or coherent enough to give it any due.
The star passing me by was exceptionally bright,
but not even it could lead me through the night of boredom in which to wallow I have not right,
especially not during an ongoing fight-and-flight.
I can only give way to those admittedly surpassing me, and hope that a moment of distraction from my strife
isn't going, immediately or decades later, somehow cost me my will to fight, my victory, or even my own life.
Processing experience is my mind, and reacting instantaneously is my arm,
their inseparable blend is attempting to protect me and my future from harm,
but it does not guarantee the best luck, unlike a mythical amulet or charm.
Sleeping I am trying, aiming to be,
even though to future I should see,
but I do not make a good fortune-teller, I cannot even see the events of the past,
for I wish to change the future, avert the death, and history's record does not last,
As victors erase and rewrite it, it is changing in many directions, for my eyes too fast,
especially when information overwhelms any single human, and recluses do not last
in times of cooperation, industrialization, detalisation, separation, stagnation...
With the time's ongoing progress,
humans' tolerance tends to regress
as they find more and more excuses
for stupid prejudices, which includes
most of the opinion human exudes.
Your mood it may likely depress,
but it is caused by reality's stress
and the events which time press
into more work for me, not less,
which I am going to soon face:
it is becoming an explosive mess.
Each detail is like an untied shoelace:
unpredictable, quite dangerous mess,
which takes only a moment to fix,
but the moment might cost you the race,
while not tying it might destroy your face,
or worse, your leg, your arm, your health.
Yourself in others you might occasionally see,
and then ask yourself: why should I at all be?
Like shelf of library, the Earth contains all kinds
of books, of people, and the reader here finds
both many duplicates of the same redaction
and of the rarest volume, before-retraction,
charred, almost burned, invaluable remains.
Why is it so? The librarians would lament
loss of any book; lacking not heart but bias.
It's bias due to which some would torment
selected individuals more than any others.
I am too tired somehow to coherently think,
But I still do not allow myself to ever blink,
Hoping to get myself back onto the rails,
Before everything around me down fails.
I am walking on hot coals and sharp nails,
I, my eyes, can see neither head nor tails
Of the serpent which as the future hails.
I shall fly on my memory's wings,
And land on the roofs of my past,
But my will forward to go, to move
Shall not yet forever be able to last.
My gait, unfortunately not steadfast,
May allow my inner spring to rust.
I have gone through the gates of time and space,
In the portals' midst I had the white mist to face.
Their help you'll enlist in case of against time race,
And up to difficulties, discomfort you shall brace.
I am in the middle of life, neither learn nor work,
But hoping to soon combine them both as study.
I am in the middle of land, neither city nor village,
But hoping there will be no such difference soon.
I am in the middle of time, should be going to sleep,
And yet I have about three hours until waking from it.
Time zone difference is answer to the latest riddle.
Extinction and overpopulation - to the previous one.
Combining learning and creation in study somewhere
Is the most difficult question, for I know not where
Place can be flexible enough to suit my imagination
And yet anchored deeply in reality, not hallucination.
I am entrenched deeply in the sticky transparent web,
It is as if I am surrounded by a twisting, alluring herb,
Ensnaring my senses, clouding in mist my tired mind,
So that an escape from my boredom I could not find.
But that still cannot excuse my not ever leaving apathy:
In the present, for the future, I should be living, active,
For others, if not for myself, instead of being covered
In dust, like an out-of-date, boring textbook on a shelf.
I am not able to beautifully, like a swan, to the world sing;
I would rather forever live in the eye of the cursed storm
Than bind the whole world to perfection as the bells ring
Of the church, of unending of widespread slavery attempt
Which many people from independence to fanatism swept.
For the children who blindly believe in a god, I have wept,
But for myself I should weep, too, for I am absolutely inept
In controlling the winds of my life, my body and mind inert.
To the smallest movements of the air, dust I should be alert,
But I am paralyzed by the many possibilities unknown, left
Behind by a decision, each and every day; I cannot forget
Them, as, unsteady, with the wind I sway, unable to exert
Any effort to emit of the coming danger ray, forever bent
On visiting once more the sunny, sandy bay. House rent,
I cannot in this childhood any longer stay; my energy spent,
I am melting, like candle wax, every day. Who might be sent
With me, my loneliness, here to stay? Who would tolerate
My company while I escape into the ink of written worlds?
I can easily understand, or imagine, the inner world of fiction
Character, but it doesn't help to interact with an incarnation
Of similarly unique people around me, even my close friend
Whom I would, if brave enough by then, with my life defend:
I hope such danger, threat our way would not be ever sent,
For neither of us can imagine living without the other; alas,
We might have to go separate ways in future close, not faraway.
I doubt whether I shall ever have in the approaching future say;
That may be why I can hardly survive without writing a single day.
I am tired, falling down, wanting to break apart, to find then some rest,
I know no safe place to be not even more hurt; wanting to pass a test,
Knowing no next goal, stumbling around blind, overwhelmed with zest
To do anything, to help and to be accepted, not necessarily as the best,
But as one of equals, at least, hardworking, precise, thorough, pedant,
Who has an unusual to get into trouble, to tremble and freeze, penchant.
Despite my stubbornness and easy-going way, self-assurance is scant,
And I can easily panic, blame myself inside and at others angrily rant,
Continuing a useless pursuing of ghosts, akin to a harmful witch-hunt.
I am a hopeless optimist, strangely, for the two of them not a middle,
But a walking contradiction, which is able to imagine the worst outcome,
And yet to passively rest, expecting the world better with time to become,
As if people are not evil, greedy, homicidal, self-destructive, not even some
Of the living, long dead, and not yet born, of loved and not, of the criminals
Who were discovered, paid the cost, and those by pursuers quickly lost...
I might be similar to a blood-thirsty demon, or a vampire, in my worst qualities:
By myself, like a garden snake during a winter, under the snow, I am apathetic,
But sometimes, inspired by presence of other people, I can become energetic.
Mirror, mirror, please, let me see, whom I was, whom I could be?
I was stung by a falling bumblebee, I was merely trying to let it be free,
But it could not understand me, falling stubbornly along the glass,
As actor in meaningless farce, you have bitten me, you, crass,
Forcing me to resort to the metal shear, to throw you out of the window rear.
The burns, criss-crossing, insignificant, brown, reminder of inattention on my skin,
And accidental, small, but painful under strain of the muscles, wound can be seen.
What is, what was, what will be, why and how, and what could have possibly been?
In the silence of oncoming of planet destruction you could hear sound of a falling pin.
Once, long ago, in a far away place, I have made one - or maybe more - stupid mistake,
Time may flow, and I still have to face it, I cannot forget it any more than an icy snowflake
Can into clear water thaw while, part of whitest snow, it has others the heat flow to take.
A steel hound may steadily haunt me, making me gaunt, but I found no objections abound
To that seemingly impossible event as boredom would not then possibly torment my ground.
Earth is round, I dislike any sound, especially loud, I wish not to be bound, I have not found
An interest to latch upon, as a snake hatchling curious I still dream of what cannot ever exist,
Reading any books, read before or not, watching movies, interesting or not, I can hardly resist,
From walking through the doors, locked or not, competing, winning or not, I can barely desist;
I have tendency any words, intentions, my own and of others, to smoothly unnoticeably twist.
Why do I have this wish an inventory of random thoughts, occurences here in rhymes to list?
For a long time, person 'two' has uselessly, passively, lazily, thoughtlessly slept,
Allowing first 'zero', then 'one' to increase to the world of shared creativity debt,
While I have merely for future of the worlds, the Earth, humanity and nature, wept,
Crying, madly, inside, but swimming down the tide, actionless, and outwardly inert...
Why am I still standing, why am I not falling down, through ground, deep into Earth's molten core?
What is the reason for hysterical laughter of hungry predator, with his vocal chords from howls sore?
Why am I still reading the boiling mix of fairy tales, myths and lore, of humour, happiness and gore?
Why am I wishing to add my own two cents to it, when there is already of unfinished stories galore?
And yet, I do not consider pouring out my thoughts, like glistening blood, from heart, a tiring chore;
When I tried to contain ideas hatched, like fiery dragons, within my heart, I saw my heartstrings tore.
I wish I could have lived in the times where people were less uniform, not tied down to one path expected
From them from their birth, by their environment selected, which was by no person ever chosen or elected,
But in times of travel free and wide, of information scarce and not second-hand; as you might have detected,
I am irritated by current redundancy of bureaucracy, travel restrictions; by news overheard, then repeated,
Unchecked, rumoured, with far-away unknown source, hardly ever combinated with past, or concentrated
Into an analysis of events, their reasons, aftermath, and possible in future trend - unless by 'scientists' defended Report is granted money, and created by scholars; as if writer's opinion article should not have ever contained...
Gone the times are when were worthy of waiting for, of listening to; now, they speak of trains and lives derailed
Far away from readers' home, leaving them amused, mostly unaffected, even as some criminals may be detained
Long after the crime they commited, with assistance of evidence from the ubiqutous black holes, gleaned, gained.
I am surprised that on a petty topic, of contemporary newspapers and journalists, I have so lengthily complained.
I wish could be a tiger; it is of beauty and grace, of loyalty and elegance, of strength and wisdom, entrancing choice;
But I am afraid it suits me not, for clumsy and taciturn, hardly any politeness I have got, much less a singing voice;
And I would hardly be able to get black stripes, to extinguish fires, since I would be moving slower than a tortoise.
I feel like I am not able to do anything at all, only down with the flow of sands of time fall, but I still leisurely stroll,
As nothing is wrong in this, real, world at all, how can I bear pretending to stand still tall, ignore of death waterfall?
I am afraid that I will not ever find my true call, as I pensively the similar to marble ball roll, where might I enroll?
Afraid of choosing, for time I am trying to stall, as if time could gift me with speaking scroll, thwarted then by wall.
I have not slept this one fruitless night, a bird is hooting, whistling in its flight, I have to risk, and sweet bait to bite,
I wish I could sleep through the light, for I dislike the harsh sun rays bright, but I have not the sharpness of a kite...
When victims are killed by predator, you are focused on those who survive to be under the blue, sleepless spotlight,
Forgetting those who have died, not learning from their possible mistakes, even as survivor cannot sleep through night.
History of the world and human, trail of running sand, described in rumours, secret documents and legend, is painted
By victor, or victors, even if they do not at all intend to twist truth, to understand it all they cannot pretend, and 'fainted'
Would be not worst of their problems if mindset of each and every opponent they wished to comprehend: not 'tainted'
Logic of the world view would be, but rather... different, like ice and sun, desert and jungle, water and sand, arm and hand,
And even as they surely might complement each other in a fight, they would still be too much to move together and such.
It's not easy for a single individual to understand compassionately each person he interacts with, because inner fragility Of heart and mind, of multifaceted crystal, increases with each facet to it added, as each of many sides smaller becomes.
I live in the middle of warzone, having to go through battles, and every day to my opponents face, but I have no peace where to race,
And even if I had, I would not debase myself, would not my family disgrace by leaving my allies behind...
The looks can turn into stone, and as the skill duellers hone, compassion is burned by hot flames which not even tears can supress,
And our own tails we probably chase, but we will still construct the maze in which nothing you shall find...
I may be chilled to the bone, but calmness in my mind setlles, my eyes resembling thin icy daze, as I forcibly slumber not in the haze,
Each mine unnoticed by an untrained ear brings thousand of wounds that do not heal increasing of them well grounded fear.
Sounds from far away past at my heart, at the heartstrings within it viciously tore, as I observed an unknown of lake shore.
She said, almost smiling, about the white swan: he is so serious and sad... I wished later to reply, or to lecture, that for his carefulness I am glad,
Since it cannot know whether the time flow will bring food or stone, poison or keen blow which to dodge it would hardly be able, slow.
But later, with years I take note of the glow, resembling the whitest of cold winter snow; the star was shining, its moves humanly slow,
The rays unearthly, both cold and hot the glow, bringing the spring to icy shore, to which they bow, even as forward, to flame, her rays do gently flow.
I am forgetting myself, seeing the abyss grow, and across it I am less and less likely to throw my effort, and yet shall do that, as I do grow,
And I wish not to break to myself a solem vow, but why? What am I to myself? Do you know why are you important? Probably, you saw Yourself as centre of universe; by white crow, the universe has no centre or sentience or will. Working, you shall always go, tiredly, uphill,
Even if some say that Gods help you - still, in the end your success depends on your will, on your choice, on your voice, on your skill.