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...
A rose awakened in gentle light,
Petals soft as a whispered vow.
It carried hope in shades of red,
A promise made to now.
No thorn was sharpened by old pain,
No leaf remembered rain.
It bloomed for hands not yet entwined,
For joy untouched by yesterday’s stain.
Its fragrance spoke of first-time smiles,
Of laughter finding air.
Of hearts that meet without defense,
Unafraid to care.
This rose was born for new beginnings,
For love, still learning how to stay.
For happiness that grows in trust,
Not rushed, but finds its way.
It bends toward warmth, not memory,
Toward mornings yet to be known.
A simple truth in velvet form:
Love blooms best when freshly sown.
So place this rose where hope resides,
Where joy has room to breathe.
It is not rooted in the past—
It blooms for what will be. 🌹
© 2025 Gloria Penelope
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