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...
What am I?
A simple person with a smile,
not one that appears on command,
but one that rises
only when it means something.
I have felt the weight of words
that were never true
slander that cut without proof,
betrayal that came unannounced,
criticism and hatred
placed on me without a single sin.
They say I do not laugh.
That is not the truth.
I think carefully.
I listen deeply.
I choose my laughter
only where it is safe
to let it live.
Life has shown me fire
I have burned
without season or warning.
Pain arrived early
and stayed longer than invited.
So tell me;
Where would my smile come from
after such a life?
It waits quietly,
not broken,
Just cautious.
Resting until the world
proves it can be kind enough
to deserve it.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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