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...
When you were done with me,
you pushed me away without regret.
When I no longer served your needs,
I became useless in your eyes.
Life was sweet for you without me—
Laughter came easy,
days moved on as if I never existed.
Then the scariest snake appeared,
blocking your path,
before I even reached where I was going.
Suddenly, my name returned to your mouths.
You called me back,
hands shaking, voices desperate,
asking me to fight the danger for you.
Am I your emergency tool,
kept aside until fear arrives?
No. You are no longer worth my help.
Face your crisis without me.
I will walk on,
wounded but awake,
and I will survive—
stronger without you.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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