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...
He refused the name of family man,
Though vows lay warm upon his hand,
A house stood waiting for his truth,
While he chased shadows, unplanned.
He wore innocence like morning light,
Soft words, a harmless face,
But rot lived deep within his core
A rotten potato in a polished case.
Women passed like pages torn,
Used, discarded, left behind,
He treated hearts like empty cups,
Never tasting the love inside.
A soulless man with vacant eyes,
No conscience knocking at his door,
Cruelty stitched beneath his skin,
A wolf’s intent in a sheep’s robe worn.
He laughed at consequences unseen,
Believed his steps would never fall,
Mistook silence for forgiveness,
Mistook delay for no justice at all.
Then demise came—quiet, swift, unplanned,
Not with thunder, not with fame,
But with loss that stripped his comfort bare,
And mirrors that whispered his name.
Wealth slipped through his careless hands,
Troubles gathered like storm-fed seas,
The throne he built on borrowed lies
Collapsed beneath neglected knees.
Now he stands where truth is loud,
Where masks no longer fit the face,
Learning too late that every heart betrayed
Leaves a debt no time can erase.
Such is the end of hollow men,
Who saw in darkness, blind to cost
When love is trashed, and vows are burned,
Even riches cannot replace what’s lost.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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