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...
Time slips softly through our hands,
Between the tasks we rush to do,
Measured not by clocks or days,
But how we live, and what we choose.
It hides inside our daily plans,
In hurried steps and shallow breath,
We spend it as if it were endless,
Unaware it walks with death.
Tomorrow stands behind a veil,
A mystery no soul can read,
Destiny writes in hidden ink,
Unseen paths our feet may lead.
Life unfolds like whispered truth,
One moment clear, the next unknown,
A fragile flame that dances bright,
Yet knows it’s never fully owned.
For any day may be the last,
Any night may close the door,
Time does not ask for permission—
It simply moves, then moves no more.
So hold your moments gently now,
Speak the love you mean to say,
For life is brief, and time is shy,
And mystery decides the day.
© 2025 Gloria Penelope
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