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...
Just when I thought I’d seen it all,
Life whispered, wait—there’s more.
Each dawn unfolded a hidden page,
A truth I hadn’t read before.
I walked once clothed in borrowed lies,
A name bruised by slander’s breath,
Blame like stones upon my back,
Critics writing my living death.
I stood alone in echoed doubt,
My shadow heavy with their words,
Yet time, that silent keeper of scales,
Heard what justice never heard.
For life’s great mystery turned its key,
Slow, unseen, yet deeply kind,
And washed my name in patient light,
Leaving falsehoods far behind.
Now I rise as living proof,
A mirror polished by the storm,
A testimony born of truth,
From brokenness to fully formed.
I am my story, clear and whole,
No borrowed voice, no twisted view,
Life unfolded—and in its grace,
I finally met the real me, too.
© 2025 Gloria Penelope
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