1
Mired in the viscous undergrowth of morality,
Immobilized by the indeterminate; and left helpless to the vivid judgement of a colour-blind spectrum,
Taking slow, stubborn steps in a direction one can only assume is forward,
Losing hope's compass with every struggled step and breath.
I find myself between two places, unsure of the distance to either or,
Nor sure of the importance of either landmark.
How can I weigh my options when I am so unsure?

2
His movements are awkward, a desire to create something beautiful;
Like a painter without a steady wrist who, although meaning well, lack of skill overcomes
and the scene represented on canvas is a shadow of the vanity of other work,
however it has an incredible honesty to it, a certain characteristic that shouts,
"I am not the best, but I have done my best work."
And for this, we are grateful.