What if every strand of spanish moss is a fallen angel?
Angels worn thin by human hubris, angels whose wings faltered on their way to redemption.
Choirs of angels laced together in anguish and mortality, exposed to the finite forms of descent: rain and sun and wind and living things. Strung out and immoveable on wooden branches where once they passed through entire universes unmolested, unhindered, and beloved.
Are they proud? Do they rest, at last? Did they fight for this stagnant freedom?
Or is this the punishment promised by purgatory: to live, to die, to rot?
Veils of moss sway in the breeze and fall to the ground unremarked upon, too ubiquitous and annoying to be mourned.
These remnants of souls, shredded wings and filigreed bodies, hang loosely over us, watching over us despite exile from the cherished spiritual plane. Angels on high, slowly falling away.