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...
They mistook her kindness for a lack of sense,
Called her foolish, bent her will,
Turned her service into offense,
And worked her spirit until it stood still.
They spoke over her, used her days,
Then erased her good with careless tongues,
Ungrateful words replaced her praise,
Each lie louder than the truth she’d sung.
Because she wore no fancy clothes,
No borrowed shine, no proud display,
They judged her worth by dress and strife
And laughed at the quiet way she stayed.
Her heart bled softly, unseen, unheard,
An inner pain she learned to hide,
She grew weak alone, yet in their world
She stood upright, unbroken inside.
All she asked of heaven’s ear
Was one small opening, one return,
A path back home, to roots held dear,
To the place her wounded soul still yearned.
And when that opening finally came,
She did not look back, she did not plead
She left with scars, but not with shame,
Returning to her roots… her truest creed.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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