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 didn’t rise from mountains or maps,
but from inside my chest—
a quiet rumble I ignored
until the ground split open.
One moment, there were plans:
calendars neat with future dates,
dreams folded carefully
like clothes waiting to be worn.
The next—
lava.
Heat rushed through everything I loved,
burning paths I thought were permanent,
melting the shape of who I was
and who I thought I’d be.
Nothing survived untouched.
The air grew thick with ash,
every breath heavy with loss.
I searched for the old roads,
but they were buried,
sealed beneath what I could not undo.
There is a terror
in knowing normal will not return—
that the life before the eruption
exists only as a story now,
told in the past tense.
I stand in the aftermath,
shattered, still warm with grief,
watching smoke rise
from the ruins of my intentions.
Even silence feels broken.
Yet somewhere beneath the hardened black,
The Earth is still alive—
not the same, never the same,
but waiting.
And though I cannot imagine green again,
Time has a way
of teaching stone how to breathe.
© 2025 Gloria Penelope
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