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...
Beneath white lights and whispered hours,
an elder rests on borrowed time,
veins tracing maps of many years,
a life now folded into a bed of steel.
Machines speak where strength no longer can,
soft beeps counting fragile breaths.
Doctors move with careful hands and eyes,
Doing all that knowledge still allows.
Hope stands quietly at the doorway,
afraid to step too close.
Charts say what hearts refuse to hear—
that survival is a fading word.
Children hold hands they once were held by,
their prayers trembling, unschooled in miracles.
Family gathers in sacred silence,
each tear a question heaven must answer.
“God,” they whisper into the night,
“heal what medicine cannot touch.
If not forever, then grant a little more—
a season, a year, one more sunrise.”
The room fills with faith and fear entwined,
where love kneels louder than despair,
and even as hope grows thin,
prayer refuses to let go.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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