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...
My heart walks with stones inside it
forged beneath the weight of nameless days.
Trauma writes its scripture in my chest,
inked in echoes, scars that speak
even when my mouth is silent.
Days stretch longer than nights.
hours drift like ash with nowhere to settle.
I wait in corridors of refusal,
Where doors learn my face
and still choose not to open.
They belittle me, with questions wrapped in smiles.
tongues sharpened into polite cruelty.
They weigh my life on scales of currency,
call me lacking,
as if worth were minted, not lived.
Poverty is my nickname where I stay,
I'm a quiet tenant feeding on restraint.
Hunger is my daily language,
teaching my body humility
before the world teaches me about mercy.
Still, I breathe
not because life is kind,
but because something stubborn remains.
A small defiance, unbought and unbroken,
refusing to disappear.
My heart is heavy, yes,
But it still beats.
And in a world that keeps counting losses,
that alone
is an act of survival.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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