Mercy came knocking once, a pale wanderer draped in dawn, with weary eyes and gentle hands, carrying no sword, only the burden of understanding. But the wicked knew not her face. Their hearts were citadels of stone, where compassion died unnamed and every wound became a weapon. They barred the gates. For mercy is a stranger in the hearts of the wicked. She walks their halls unseen, a ghost among shadows, whispering of forgiveness to ears that worship vengeance. They drink from poisoned wells and call bitterness wisdom. They sharpen grief into blades and wear cruelty like a crown. Where mercy offers a bridge, they build a wall. Where mercy kneels, they strike. And so she leaves quietly, taking her light with her, while darkness settles deeper into chambers already cold. The wicked do not fear mercy, they fear what mercy reveals: that beneath their iron masks, beneath their kingdoms of pride, beneath the ruins they call strength, there lives a trembling truth they dare not face. For merc...
Horrible things might happen,
because of the people around you—
words like stones in their mouths,
thrown without care for where they land.
Do not let irritation find a home in your chest.
This, too, is part of living,
a chapter written by fate
with ink that tests your patience.
When they speak badly of you,
choose distance over defense.
Silence can be a shelter,
avoid them for the sake of your sanity,
for the calm your spirit deserves.
If they blame you for every shadow,
every crack they refuse to fix,
do not stay and bleed explanations.
Walk away.
Peace is not cowardice.
One day—
quiet, unannounced—
The truth will rise on its own,
untouched by anger,
undeniable as light.
© 2025 Gloria Penelope
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