SHADOW AT THE EDGE OF AGE

In the corner of a weary dusk, a woman sits silently on the porch, the wrinkles on her face tell long tales, of nights wrapped in lies and veils. Once she was a star on shadowed streets, with painted eyes and laughter deceit, hollow embraces for a bite of hope, in a world that never learned to cope. Her name forgotten by the years, her body weary, her soul in tears, she once sold sorrow and longing’s hue, trading dignity for food and something new. Now she is alone, no arms to hold, no child to call her “Mom,” only the morning wind that gently roams, brushing her cheeks, cold as stone. "Would God still care to hold me close?" she whispers to the dimming sky in prose. Tears fall silently without a trace, like prayers that tremble in a hollowed space. She does not seek a heaven above, just forgiveness—and a sliver of love. For at the edge of life’s final page, she wishes not to die a whore, but a soul once lost in a storm, who learned regret—forevermore.