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...
Simply beautiful—
Yes, to the eye.
A face the world admires,
a smile that convinces.
But inside,
Your heart is like rotten bread,
soft once, perhaps,
now taken over by mould,
spreading easily, quietly,
without resistance.
Evil settles in your deeds,
so cold it forgets gentleness,
So sharp it forgets mercy.
A woman in form,
yet stripped of warmth,
carrying a stone where a heart should rest.
No softness lives there,
no pause before cruelty,
no echo of compassion.
What shaped you this way?
What storms hardened your soul?
What pain taught you to wound without regret?
You are not what you appear to be.
Beauty stops at your skin
and dares not go deeper.
Oh God— Who is this Lady?
Who is she?
Behind her mask, the world is fooled.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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