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...
Nurture others from the goodness within,
Not as a favor, not counting the win.
Let kindness flow free, with no hidden cost,
No need to remind them of what you have lost.
Give without measuring, help without pride,
No whispered complaints when they turn aside.
What you offer in light should not turn to shade,
True care asks nothing for help that was made.
Live with a heart that is gentle and clean,
Let your intentions be honest, unseen.
Do good in silence, let actions be true,
The purest of lives needs no audience too.
For goodness that’s real does not seek a crown,
It lifts others up without pushing them down.
Walk softly through life, let your spirit impart
A legacy written in love, from a pure heart.
© 2025 Gloria Penelope
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