Internally torn by the severing shears of indecision I stand,
fearing that if I should take a step I will stumble.

I stand rigid to the point of immobility
as lubricious thoughts permeate my languid psyche

And so I stand ...
contemplating life,
it's strife,
it's plights ...
it's joy,
it's shame,
it's pride,
it's pain,
it's terror ...
it's benevolence,
it's meaning ...
it's consequence.

To choose or not to choose,
is that a question of genuine significance?
To live a life of indifference,
to slake carnal desire from the cup of indulgence.

Is this wrong or right?
Is this the elementary essence of life?

Perhaps the path of piety provides the answers
for this provincial pilgrim.
Living a life of don'ts and do's,
mindlessly following what's told to you as "true"

Could it be, that the spectrum of morality
is always this black and white?
Or is it possible     that it just might
be
much more complex then we'd like
to conceive,
much more complex then we'd like
to believe?

Could it be, that the spectrum of morality,
is in fact inhabited by infinite intensities
of gray?
Shades of gray that have no say.
Shades of gray that aren't labeled with the "right" way?

And so I still stand,
in an utter state of mental atrophy,
contemplating this didactic journey.

To stand still, is to make a choice ...
the wrong choice.

To step is the only solution.
Thus I must delve into the miry sea of morality,
in hopes to discover some clarity
amidst the crashing currents of confusion.

So step I shall
and stumble I may,
on a quest for self truth
in the morally gray.

I saw a site that Abraham in all his glory never witnessed ...

A colony of clouds amidst

  the sea of the sub heavens.

Clouds of varying shapes and sizes,

  all unique,

yet seemingly content to coexists with each other.

The ruler of this colony sat a top a thrown of condensation

  allowing us to pass

    with hopes that we could learn from them

      before we destroy our kingdom and theirs.

The soulful moans
  of the alto saxaphone
  tell a story.
She tells her story
  backed by syncopated bass lines
    and a funky drummer that keeps in time
  with the heartbeat
    of the city streets.
Her lamentation strikes a chord
  with all who've had to struggle.
Her melody rings true for all
  all of those still in the hustle.
Her story is my story,
  it is your story,
    it's our history.