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...
A whispering voice keeps talking in the ears,
Soft as breath, yet sharp as fear,
No face, no shadow, nowhere near
Still, every word is crystal clear.
What a frightening world we tread,
Where silence screams inside someone's head,
Where unseen truths refuse to be buried
And guilt becomes an uninvited guest.
What did you do? The whisper asks,
Behind closed doors, behind your mask.
You wronged a soul both pure and kind,
Left no mercy, left no sign.
An innocent heart bore your deceit,
Fell beneath your careful lies,
You traded truth for quick defeat
And called a betrayal “being wise.”
You spoke their name with poison breath,
Bent the story, broke their flame,
But lies have weight, and time has depth,
And justice never forgets a name.
The price must be paid—so says the air,
Not with noise, but slow and deep,
For unseen voices always swear
What’s sown in darkness, we must reap.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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