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...
There is a drought in my life,
No matter the season, nothing seems to grow right.
I plant hope in tired soil,
And harvest silence every night.
Hardships fall like endless rain,
Yet no light ever follows the storm.
Just cold drops on an open wound,
A test I was never sworn.
I sit in a dimmed room,
A small candle fighting to stay,
Its flame trembling with each breath,
As if it knows it may fade away.
Dark clouds gather without apology,
They settle deep inside my chest.
I smile—not from joy,
But from distress dressed as strength.
There is no mercy in these hours,
Only questions with no reply.
As if I sinned against heaven,
As if God passed me by.
Luck forgot to learn my name,
Missed my door, lost my trace.
While others wake to gentle mornings,
I greet another shadowed face.
What a sad life, this quiet war,
Fought without applause or sound.
Yet even now, the candle breathes—
Still standing,
Still not down.
© 2025 Gloria Penelope
Comments