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...
Do not treat women
like garments of passing seasons,
tried on in mirrors of desire,
discarded when the fit demands effort.
A heart is not fabric
It remembers every hand that pulls it apart.
You mistake change for freedom,
variety for power,
leaving pieces of yourself
in every soul you bruise.
What you call moving on
is really a debt, quietly piling up.
Karma is patient.
It does not shout.
It writes your name
into the marrow of time,
counts every hollow promise,
weighing every careless touch.
One day, love will come to you
without tenderness,
a reflection sharpened, "karma."
giving back what you practiced.
No mercy, no warning,
Only balance restored.
This is life.
It bends toward truth
no matter how you twist it.
So stop sculpting your fate
with borrowed hearts,
let it harden into a shape
you cannot escape.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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