His last chance

His last chance He stood alone at twilight’s gate, The wind was still, the hour late. A thousand roads lay in his past, But none had brought him peace at last. He wore the weight of wasted years, Of silent cries and bottled tears. He’d chased the world, denied the truth, And bartered joy for fleeting youth. But something stirred within his chest— A voice long lost, a deep unrest. Could grace still bloom where guilt had grown? Could hearts come home, though far they'd flown? He knelt beneath the setting sun, Ashamed of all he'd left undone. No riches now, no grand defense— Just brokenness and recompense. A whisper rose like morning light, Not born of man, but heaven’s might: “This is the hour, this is the call— Your last chance waits—give me your all.” With trembling hands, he bowed his head, And let the past be buried, dead. A single tear, a final plea— He rose at last, a soul set free. By VV Katjijova