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 leans crooked on my shoulders,
never weighing the same for all.
What falls on me comes sharp and sudden,
hailstones instead of rain—
each moment bruising, each day cold.
The world feels like a sentence passed
without a trial, without a voice.
Everything around me looks like punishment,
as if I’ve been named the culprit
for crimes I don’t remember committing.
Hatred hangs in the air I breathe,
invisible, yet certain,
and karma circles my name
as though my existence alone
demands repayment.
I cry—not loudly, not beautifully—
just the quiet kind that seeps into bones.
There is no mercy in these hours,
no sweetness to soften the taste.
Life presses lemons to my lips
and calls the bitterness growth.
Still, I stand—sour, yes,
but breathing.
And even hail must melt,
even storms grow tired of themselves.
If karma is working,
then so am I—
enduring,
unbroken enough to remain here.
© 2025 Gloria Penelope
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