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 plant inside my life
That only wakes when rain remembers me.
Its roots know hope by instinct,
they drink quickly,
afraid the sky will change its mind.
But most days,
The desert arrives first.
It stretches across my hours,
cracks my patience open,
teaches thirst in a language
No one wants to learn.
This drought becomes a season—
long, unannounced, unforgiving.
Dreams dry into dust,
words lose their softness,
and even faith walks barefoot
on burning ground.
People suffer quietly here.
Smiles are rationed.
Promises evaporate.
We learn how to survive
on almost nothing
and call it strength.
Then—
rain.
Not loud at first.
Just a whisper on the sand,
a cool truth falling from above.
And the plant rises,
green against all logic,
proving life was never gone,
only waiting.
The desert does not disappear,
But it loosens its grip.
Cracks close a little.
Breath comes easier.
And once again,
We remember:
This season is not forever.
© 2025 Gloria Penelope
Comments