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...
It wasn’t her choice, not at all—
Life shaped her with unasked hands,
Pressed her feet toward a narrow road
Where thorns replaced the promised land.
No sign to turn, no warning light,
Just forward steps and borrowed hope.
A one-way path that whispered stay,
Even when she couldn’t cope.
She thought it was love at first sight,
A soft beginning, warm and kind.
But it was a rock hiding a death pit,
A lie wrapped gently in a smile.
She stepped, she slipped, she fell inside,
The world above grew thin and far.
Trapped in echoes of “if only,”
Counting wounds like fallen stars.
Now she lives beneath one heavy word:
Be careful—etched into her days.
It follows her like a shadowed law,
Guiding fear in every way.
Still, inside her quiet breathing,
A wish survives, though bruised and small:
To find a crack, a rope, a way out—
To rise again, despite it all.
© 2025 Gloria Penelope
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