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...
I know you hate me
I feel it when you are around me,
in the weight of your stare.
But stop,
before hatred thins you out
until there is nothing left but rage.
I know you planned evil against me,
quiet thoughts sharpened in the dark.
Stop it.
I did nothing wrong to you.
I do not eat from your table,
I do not sleep beneath your roof.
My life does not steal from yours,
my breath does not lessen your days.
So let the anger rest.
Release the fire you keep feeding.
Let me walk my path in peace,
Let me stand under the same sky.
Allow me this small mercy
to breathe God’s air freely,
without fear,
without your rage chasing my shadow.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
Comments