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...
Born alone, she entered a silent world,
An orphaned cry swallowed by dust and fate.
Her mother’s warmth was buried too soon,
Left behind in the hands of cruelty,
Where love was rationed and mercy unknown.
She wears happiness like borrowed skin,
A fragile disguise stitched with forced smiles.
Her laughter is an echo she learned to fake,
While her heart bleeds quietly,
Layered with scars no one asks to see.
Each day is a sentence without a crime,
Hands that serve, knees that bend,
A life mistaken for duty,
A child turned servant,
A soul chained to daily torture and invisible slavery.
At night, she whispers dreams to the dark,
Dreams of freedom that tremble but refuse to die.
She longs to breathe without fear,
To exist without apology,
To live beyond survival.
What a world she’s living in.
One that tests the innocent,
That hardens hearts and calls it normal.
Yet somewhere within her wounded chest,
Hope still stirs…
Quiet, stubborn, and waiting to be free.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
Comments