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...
Once an innocent girl with open eyes,
Dreams folded neatly in her hand,
She believed the world was soft and fair,
A place that life would understand.
Then poverty spoke before her time,
With an unforgiving, urgent tone.
School doors closed, not by her choice,
But by hunger she had always known.
Books were traded for heavy days,
For early mornings, restless nights.
She learned to hustle far too young,
To turn survival into fights.
Now she stands as a single mother,
With a child pressed close to her heart.
Life was never fair to her,
It broke her before she could start.
Still, there is strength in her quiet walk,
In the way she carries pain.
She asks the world for nothing much—
Just mercy, not disdain.
To God she cries without her pride,
Without disguise, without shame.
“Rescue me in this cruel world,
Before my child learns the same.”
Her prayer is not a weakness shown,
But courage rising through despair.
For even broken faith still hopes,
And even tears are heard in prayer.
© 2025 Gloria Penelope
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