Between heaven & earth

a poem for the ghosts in my mind

the tombstone leans crooked,
gritty grey pressed into earth
that’s seen too much. blood pooled here
you can almost smell it in the cracks.

the air is thick with them. ghosts.
faces sharp with grudges so old
they’ve turned brittle.

they hover like smoke,
bitter, clinging to the living

and then, the others
softer,
they drift in this place
that isn’t sky or soil.
they don’t wail, they watch.

maybe this is hell,
not fire, not brimstone.
nothing burns here.
it’s colder than that.

a hallway with no doors,
a song that skips before the last note.

hell is being stuck,
halfway between what you want
and what you’ve lost,
knowing no one’s coming
to pull you through.

---

This poem is written as a response to a prompt posted by

Writer Pilgrim by So Elite

. Linking it below so you can explore more prompts & the works 🧡

Writing Prompt 92

moon put the balcony on my wall

You’re reading this post on December 14th, but I’m writing it on the 3rd. It’s the only time I’ve had all week to scribble something—put thoughts to paper. It’s been ten days since my grandfather crossed over to heaven. Naturally, I’ve been thinking a lot about death and what it means to be alive.

Maybe I’ll share more in a Wednesday post someday. For now, my heart feels heavy, and my tongue is twisted. We’re grieving together as a family, and oddly, it’s been therapeutic. If it weren’t for my family and my fiancé’s family, I’d be an even soupier mess than I already am.

This period of grief has also made me think deeply about friendships—the people who stand by you when you’re at your lowest. Who show up, not because of what you’ve done for them, but because it’s in their nature to be present as friends.

When Dadu passed, I invited 15 people I consider close to me. Only three came. Two left within thirty minutes. Just one stayed until the end. It was only a two-hour ceremony.

I’m not someone who holds grudges or keeps a tally, but I noticed the absences. It made me wonder: What good is a relationship if it survives only through occasional text messages or catching up at weddings?

Then again, maybe I’m part of the problem too. The truth is, I’m not great at staying in touch either. I don’t reply to messages for weeks. My heart races when my phone rings, whether it’s a delivery executive or my mother. I prefer emails—or at least two days’ notice for events.

I’m sharing this because sometimes life permits me to post bonus entries on Saturdays. When I feel gracious, creative, or just want to connect a little deeper.

Mo’s Magazine is a free publication, but I care for it as if it were paid. Why? Because I want my words to travel far and wide, spreading joy, comfort, and love to as many souls as possible.

If my writing has ever warmed your heart, there are ways to support me as an author—I’ve listed them below.

1. Subscribe to Mo’s Magazine & recommend it to your readers!

2. Leave honest comments, feedback, experiences either in the section below post or as response to the email you receive. This is a super wholesome part of building this community. Our foundation is stories & vulnerability.

3. If you’re a writer looking to strengthen nature oriented/observation coded writing skills, I wrote a no-bs Nature Observation Guide you can use as framework to find poetic inspiration in the natural world. You can purchase it here.

4. I joyfully accept tips & donations via my ko-fi page. I’m building a fund to travel to America & continue pursuing my creative writing career.
   

   I’ll see you on Wednesday!