This summer, I peeked
under my bed
and dusted off the ghosts
of the past.
I took them out in the sun
and hung them out to dry.

Surprised the stench leaked
this far into my living. And instead
of looking under my skin,
I pondered on how long this blunt would last.
Burned my fingers
and scorched my shirt pocket fry.

During my coma,
I ran the halls of the sky.
Shirtless against the precipitation of life,
I came upon clouds
that were puffy and white,
black and charged,
and gray with strife.

I'm stuck here,
in this place,
in this in-between,
in this Gray.

There is no light,
there is no dark,
I'm not anywhere,
but I'm also not nowhere.

I stare into a shaded sky,
it's end unforeseeable,
it's depth unimaginable,
but it's presence growing stronger.

It's quiet here,
but it's not silent,
like someone with words to say,
but not the voice to speak.

I'm neither cold here,
nor am I ever warm,
the Gray envelops them,
both the night and the morn.

I'm stuck here,
in this place,
I'm starting to fade away,
consumed by this world of endless Gray.