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...
Warthogs roam with sharpened hate,
Lions answer with burning pride.
When their paths cross in the open land,
peace has no place to hide.
Claws strike, teeth clash,
roars tear the waiting air.
The ground shakes beneath their rage,
as if the desert remembers old wars.
Dust rises thick like ancient anger,
clouding eyes, swallowing sound.
For a moment, even the sun steps back,
watching fury spill onto the ground.
They fight like stubborn human thugs,
ruled by ego, blind with power,
forgetting that strength fades fast
under time’s unforgiving hour.
In the end, the desert remains
silent, vast, unchanged.
Bodies fall, pride dissolves,
names erased, victories strange.
Warlogs, lions, men alike,
learn the truth too late to trust:
hatred shouts, battles roar,
But everything ends
in the desert’s dust.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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