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...
Sour days line my pockets,
sharp as pennies I can’t spend.
Poverty sits on my back
like a stone that never learned
how to be lifted.
Distress comes daily,
served warm like a meal I didn’t ask for,
familiar in its bitterness,
routine as breathing,
hard to refuse.
Life whispers as if—
as if I could redraw the map,
as if I could choose a different clan,
a softer starting line,
a name not weighed down by history.
I imagine destiny as a door
that opens for others with ease,
while mine sticks in the frame,
splintered, stubborn,
testing my patience.
Still—
I am here.
Not victorious, not saved,
but standing.
Still breathing through the sourness,
still holding space where hope
might someday sit.
The weight hasn’t left,
the days haven’t sweetened,
but neither have I disappeared.
And for now,
that is enough to say
I remain.
© 2025 Gloria Penelope
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