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...
You held my hand with borrowed warmth,
Eyes rehearsed, smiles well trained,
Every word sounded like devotion,
Yet carried the echo of something feigned.
You played the part so confidently,
As if truth had no right to speak,
Loving me loudly in public scenes,
While sincerity grew thin and weak.
But I noticed the pauses, the distant gaze,
The affection timed, the care on cue,
Love doesn’t calculate when to appear.
And that’s how I knew it wasn’t you.
So hear this now, a call for change:
Do not offer hearts you cannot give.
Deception may imitate love for a while,
But truth decides how we truly live.
And know this too—I’m not in love,
Not with the version you tried to be.
My heart has learned the sound of real love,
And it speaks a different language to me.
I’ve found someone whose love doesn’t perform,
No masks, no scripts, no need to pretend.
They love me in silence, in effort, in truth
And that’s where my heart will remain, in the end.
© 2025 Gloria Penelope
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