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...
Happiness used to walk ahead of me.
Not run—
just lead.
Quiet. Certain.
Like it knew the way.
Life was gentle then.
Peace didn’t have to be explained.
I breathed without checking my chest,
laughed without rehearsing it,
slept without bargaining with tomorrow.
I didn’t know
those days were teaching me
what I’d later miss.
Misery didn’t arrive screaming.
It never does.
It slipped in through familiarity,
wearing the face of “just a phase,”
moving the furniture of my life
one inch at a time
until nothing felt like home.
Now sadness walks beside me—
not ahead,
not behind—
close enough to remind me
that something was lost.
I carry memories like photographs
with the color fading.
Proof that I once lived softly.
Proof that peace knew my name.
And some nights,
that’s what hurts the most—
not that I’m hurting now,
But that I know
Exactly how good it used to be.
© 2025 Gloria Penelope
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