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...
The mind was once an orchard, green and wide,
Where careful thoughts like summer apples grew.
But neglect crept in, with comfort at its side,
And sweetness spoiled where discipline once knew.
Ideas fell heavy, bruised before they landed,
Left in the dirt, ignored, unnamed, unseen.
Mold crowned the core of dreams once carefully planted,
Turning bright intention dull, bitter, and mean.
Days tangled like rooms never cleaned or aired,
Promises stacked like trash along the wall.
A messy life, with corners long unshared,
Where silence learned the echo of the fall.
Hands that should sort truth from waste and lie
You chose ease, you chose delay, later, and soon.
And so the orchard watched itself slowly die
Under a careless, unwatchful moon.
Then came the tears, salty and sincere,
Crying over fruit too rotten to save.
Grief for the self that once lived here,
Before bad habits dug their grave.
The pain was real, but so was the blame—
Rot does not bloom without neglect.
A ruined mind, a whispered name,
A mess built brick by brick, choice by choice, step by step.
Yet even rot feeds soil when buried deep;
From decay, new roots can rise.
If the keeper wakes from careless sleep
And dares to clean, to prune, to try.
© 2025 Gloria Penelope
Comments