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...
Where suffering greeted me at dawn,
Sadness became my daily meal,
I swallowed silence with each breath,
A hidden tear, yet a bleeding heart concealed.
I walk as though the world has no vein for me,
No pulse of mercy, no gentle hand,
Each step feels borrowed, each smile forced,
On soil that barely lets me stand.
I watch the faces I meet each day,
Those who’ve never tasted this kind of pain,
They say I chose this road of lack,
They call it laziness, they call it vain.
They do not see the nights I wrestle hope,
The mornings I rise already tired,
The strength it takes just to begin,
The dreams that ache, yet won’t expire.
Little do they know, I try every day,
Even when faith feels thin and torn,
I plant my prayers in broken ground,
Believing still in a better morn.
For hope survives where hearts still beat,
Though bruised, though bent, it learns to stay,
And from this pain, I whisper on:
Tomorrow will be kinder than today.
© 2025 Gloria Penelope
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