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...
Rotten leaves cling to the ground,
once green, now bitter with time,
they crunch beneath honest footsteps,
forgotten by the tree that let them go.
Moulded bread sits in the dark,
softness turned sour,
blue veins spreading where warmth once lived,
a quiet warning no one heeds.
So is a heart that feeds on cruelty—
once capable of kindness,
now hardened by envy and spite,
sharing words that poison more than hunger.
A mean soul walks loudly,
believing sharp tongues are strength,
never noticing how the air recoils,
How doors close without sound.
Time, however, has patience.
Karma does not rush.
It works like rot—
slow, unseen, faithful to truth.
The leaves return to the soil,
The bread is thrown away,
and the heart that chose decay
must sit with what it became.
For nothing foul stays hidden forever;
What we spread, we step on later.
And in the end,
only what nourishes life
is allowed to remain.
© 2025 Gloria Penelope
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