Seeing Grey Poem by Maren Louise

I think the Spanish moss became entangled in my gray matter,
taking me to a land of the dead, but not gone,
neither here, nor there,
floating somewhere betwixt this world and the next,
hanging out, waiting for clearance,
kind of like at the airport terminal,
some souls trying to smuggle contraband
into the spirit world,
some things must be left behind,
or at least checked at the gate,
still others, waiting for friends,
some departing, some arriving,
they wait, some with signs,
some carrying messages,
from loved ones from long ago.