perhaps a place
at the holy hem of heaven
commends itself to the noble

souls who've tiptoed gracefully
past the temptations of the telluric realm
- certainly there is a limbo

here at the edge of all movement
a stifling halfway house, iron-girded
by grief, faint-heart, and where the despairing

insiders look on, always seeing out
though vision is broken by mottled glass
and water drops decanting heavily

when mists descend, decision clouds
handkerchiefs in hand we wipe
the panes, our eyes and wave away

the hours it takes to break down
doors, through to the other side of heartache

Keeping it to 100 words for M’s poetic prompt: Limbo