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...
You were certain we shared the same room,
breathing the same air of love,
believing our words met in the middle,
believing our hearts spoke one language.
We stood close enough to touch,
Yet something unseen ran between us—
two quiet rails laid side by side,
never crossing, only pretending to meet.
You thought we understood each other,
that every glance was an agreement,
that silence meant peace,
not distance learning, how to grow.
While you reached forward,
I moved elsewhere,
step by step on a neighboring path,
close, familiar, but never yours.
Time revealed the truth gently,
then all at once—
what felt like togetherness
was a parallel motion in disguise.
And eventually, inevitably,
those tracks began to bend away,
carrying us toward different horizons,
proving we were never lost—
never walking the same way.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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