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...
Is it fairness, or a twisted gift,
To walk this road alone, unclaimed?
To carry a name no one calls,
To grow in shadows where love should’ve stayed.
I ask the night, I ask the stars—
Was this written, or wrongly drawn?
To learn the world without a guide,
To wake each day already strong.
What if they lived?
What if their hands still knew my face?
Would life have spoken softer words,
Or slowed its unforgiving pace?
What if I rose in a different home,
Where laughter filled the air like song?
Where hunger was just a passing word,
Not a companion all along.
Maybe the scent of a sweeter life
Would’ve met me at morning’s door,
Not dust and doubt and empty plates,
Not wishing for a little more.
Unequal steps upon the same earth,
Some begin with crowns, some with chains.
Some inherit warmth and shelter,
Some inherit silence and pain.
Still, I breathe. Still, I stand.
Though love arrived too late to stay.
I carry dreams that never died,
Even when hope looked the other way.
If this is fate, let it be known—
I did not choose the cards I drew.
Yet in the absence of their arms,
I learned how to hold myself through.
Is it fair? I’ll never know.
Is it a gift? Time may decide.
But from the life that never was,
I built the one where I survive.
© 2025 Gloria Penelope
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