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...
At dawn the bees rise, gold-dusted and brave,
Wings humming promises the morning gave.
They cross wide fields with tireless devotion,
Reading the air like a sacred motion.
They do not pause for the loudest bloom,
Nor the flower that flaunts its heavy perfume.
They search with care, with patient sight,
For nectar that’s true, for sweetness that’s right.
From petal to petal they gently roam,
Borrowing gold to carry it home.
Through storms, through heat, through uncertain skies,
Their faith is honey, their hope never dies.
So too stands a man in a garden wide,
Where countless flowers bloom with pride.
Each one calling, “Choose me, see
I am beauty, I am destiny.”
Some shine bright but with shallow roots,
Some wear colors but hide their truths.
He learns, like bees, to look within,
Beyond soft petals, beyond the skin.
Then he sees her quiet, rare,
A rose that blooms with mindful care.
Not loud in scent, not proud in show,
But deep in strength, in steady glow.
Her thorns speak wisdom, her red speaks grace,
Time has etched truth upon her face.
She stands unmoved by fleeting eyes,
Rooted in earth, beneath vast skies.
The man chooses as the bees have taught:
With patience earned and lessons bought.
Not every flower is meant to be,
But the rose is love’s eternity.
And like the bees that return with gold,
He carries a treasure more precious to hold
A love well chosen, pure and true,
A rose unique, forever new. 🌹🐝
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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