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...
Wanna win my heart?
Find a proper way,
Not rushed words or borrowed lines
That fades by the break of day.
Charm me—but with truth,
With effort you don’t hide,
Let actions speak when silence comes,
Let consistency decide.
If you say you love me,
Let your heart be clean and sure,
No games, no masks, no halfway vows,
Only intentions are pure.
My heart is not a prize to take,
Nor something lightly won,
So come with depth, or think once more—
Or don’t begin at all.
© 2025 Gloria Penelope
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