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...
She said “I do” with hopeful eyes,
Believing in love, not hidden lies.
She couldn’t see the mask he wore,
A gentle face, a heart at war.
A narcissist in tender skin,
Where love grows thin, and control begins.
His touch was sharp, his silence loud,
Fear wrapped her like a heavy cloud.
His hands carried unspoken pain,
His words fell hard like bitter rain.
She bled inside where none could see,
A quiet loss of who she’d be.
Yet through the hurt, a truth came through:
The cost of staying was her too.
And in that wound, she found her plea
To choose herself, to be set free.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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