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...
My tears went dry
after seasons of falling without sound.
I thought sorrow was endless,
a well that would never empty—
But even grief grows tired of staying.
Life began to soften its voice.
The days hurt less,
the nights loosened their grip,
and I noticed a change
standing quietly at my door.
Happiness didn’t rush in—
It greeted me gently,
like it knew I was fragile,
like it respected
All I had survived.
I learned to smile without forcing it,
to breathe without fear,
to trust the warmth of ordinary moments.
The pain did not vanish,
but it stopped leading me.
My tears went dry,
not because I became cold,
but because I grew stronger.
Life got better,
and for the first time,
I welcomed it with open hands.
© 2025 Gloria Penelope
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