At the verge of loose. The hope

 I stand where shadows clutch the fading light,

Where whispers of yesterday drift in the night.

The air is heavy, thick with silent despair,

And every heartbeat trembles in the empty air.

My hands, once steady, now shake with fear,

Grasping at echoes that refuse to appear.

The world seems a canvas of broken dreams,

A river of sorrow with relentless streams.

Yet, beneath the rubble, a spark still glows,

A fragile ember where the cold wind blows.

Though the night presses hard, unyielding and long,

It hums a soft, defiant, trembling song.

Hope—so slight, yet stubbornly alive,

Clings to the corners where the shadows thrive.

It flickers like a candle in a storm,

A quiet promise, a gentle form.

I recall the warmth of mornings past,

Moments I thought would always last.

The laughter, the touch, the fleeting grace,

The light that once danced upon my face.

Even at the verge, where death seems near,

Hope whispers softly, calm and clear:

“Do not yield to the endless night,

There is a dawn beyond your sight.”

I close my eyes and breathe the flame,

I call its name, though all seems the same.

A pulse, a tremor, a quiet plea,

Hope survives even when it seems not to be.

So here I stand, on the edge, yet still,

Holding the ember, defying the chill.

For even when my world is torn and crying,

Life clings to the last spark, never truly dying.