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...
The river ran with a restless heart,
Carrying stories from mountain stone.
It knew the curves of valleys well,
And sang in a voice it called its own.
The sea waited, wide and calm,
A breathing blue with salted skin.
It spoke in tides and moonlit pulls,
Inviting all the waters in.
But the ocean roared with deeper drums,
Ancient, vast, too large to plead.
It did not ask the river’s will,
It claimed all endings as its creed.
The river fought with foaming cries,
Clinging to banks it used to know.
“I have a name, a path, a past—
I am not ready to let go.”
The sea softened the river’s rage,
Mixed its sweet with salted tears.
Promised rest, not erasure,
A merging calm beyond its fears.
Yet the ocean opened its endless mouth,
Where borders blur, and currents twist.
There, the river lost its edges,
And became what it resisted.
No battle left a wound or scar,
No victor stood upon the sand.
Only a quiet transformation,
Where water learns to understand.
For every river meets this fate:
To travel far, then disappear.
Swallowed not by cruelty or war,
But by something vast, sincere, and near.
And in that conflict without sound,
Where endings look like rebirth’s face,
The river dies to be everywhere—
A small life claimed by endless space. 🌊
© 2025 Gloria Penelope
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