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...
She woke up each day beneath borrowed skies,
no wage, no voice, no space to breathe.
Her worth measured in his commands,
her silence enforced by threats dressed as "love".
Rules lived heavier than wedding rings,
abusive words echoing through thin walls.
She learned to shrink, to obey the storm,
to survive by becoming invisible.
Dreams folded themselves into corners,
waiting for mercy that never arrived.
Even kindness felt like a risk,
even hope learned to whisper.
One night, exhaustion spoke louder than fear.
Her heart packed what her hands could not
dignity, courage, a wounded strength
grown from years of restraint.
She did not argue.
She did not explain.
She walked past the door that caged her life,
leaving silence where control once lived.
No goodbye was owed to cruelty.
Freedom does not announce itself.
It simply leaves
and begins again.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
Comments