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...
He carries two silences.
One waits for him at dusk,
set with familiar walls,
small shoes by the door,
promises aging quietly
in their frames.
The other meets him elsewhere
unannounced, unnamed
where laughter feels lighter,
where his heart remembers
How to open without effort.
One life is built of years and gravity,
held together by habit and hope.
The other is a flame,
brief, necessary,
asking nothing but honesty.
Joy does not live where he sleeps.
It finds him in passing hours,
in glances that cannot linger,
in happiness already mourning itself.
He stands where stone meets boiling water,
learning that stillness can burn.
To move is to destroy.
To stay is to disappear.
He loves deeply
not foolishly,
not loudly
but in the quiet way
That leaves no safe ending.
And so he remains divided,
a man shaped by what he keeps
and by what he cannot let go.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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