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...
Life once fit easily in my hands,
light as laughter,
sweet as days that didn’t ask questions.
Existing was simple then—
friends came without effort,
joy didn’t need explaining.
Time moved gently.
I belonged without proving it.
I was known.
Then something shifted.
Quietly at first.
A job lost its grip on me,
and with it went structure,
purpose,
the small dignity of routine.
Life became heavier, unfamiliar.
Doors closed without noise,
messages stopped arriving,
chairs emptied around me.
People faded—
not with anger,
just absence.
Even family grew distant,
as if my struggle made me
harder to recognize.
Love thinned.
Silence grew bold.
Now I stand in rooms
echoing with who I used to be,
feeling like someone
new to the world,
someone without history.
I am alone
in a way that feels ancient,
as if I arrived here
without witnesses,
without roots.
Yet I remember—
how life once tasted sweet,
how ease once found me.
And maybe memory itself
is proof
that I was not always invisible,
that I have not always been alone.
I am still here,
holding what’s left of myself,
waiting—
not for the past to return,
but for life to learn my name again.
© 2025 Gloria Penelope
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