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...
Life broke open as thunder above my name,
skies splitting, truth roaring without mercy.
Each step I took was argued by the wind,
certainty torn into fragments mid-stride.
My mind walked in parallels
One version of me knelt in fear,
the other searched the dark for meaning.
They spoke in echoes,
and tears became the only language
both understood.
Misfortune poured without restraint,
a relentless baptism of loss and doubt.
It drowned my plans,
tested the architecture of my faith,
asked how much ruin a soul could house
and still remain.
I stood beneath the noise, undecided,
hands trembling, vision dim,
asking the heavens not for answers,
but for permission to endure.
Then the storm began to loosen its fists.
Not in mercy, but in timing.
Light seeped through the fractures,
and change arrived unnamed
a quiet strength learned
from standing too long in the rain.
In the aftermath, gratitude rose slowly.
Not for the breaking,
but for the breath that remained.
I lifted my eyes with a wounded reverence
and thanked God
for being the silence within the thunder,
for carrying me through the chaos,
and teaching my heart
How to listen once the sky grew still.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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