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...
We begin in places no one remembers,
wrapped in sorrow before our names are learned.
Our first footsteps fall on broken ground,
and grief teaches us the language of living.
Yet even there,
hope waits quietly, patient,
folded inside tomorrow
like light hiding in the edge of night.
Life is a secret never fully told.
We plan with confident hands,
draw futures in careful lines,
as if time had signed an agreement with us.
But tomorrow listens to no one.
It arrives changed,
or not at all.
Dreams bend, paths vanish,
and certainty dissolves like mist.
We chase meaning,
believing control is ours,
while time moves softly,
counting us without sound.
Everything becomes a matter of waiting
for joy, for loss, for change,
For the moment, we understand
We were always passing through.
And when we perish,
It is not defeat,
But the final reminder:
We were never owners of time,
only travelers,
carrying hope
from forgotten beginnings
into whatever comes next.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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