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...
Life unveils itself in naked light,
Through shattered hopes and endless nights.
It speaks in trials, sharp and slow,
In wounds you never chose to know.
Each setback carves the soul with fire,
Each betrayal destroys passion.
What breaks you open, piece by piece,
Is where delusions eventualy end.
Tears fall, not as signs of defeat,
But rather holy waters, sweet fluids.
They cleanse the heart of borrowed dreams,
And strip the world of false regimes.
Your fate arrives in broken ways,
Disguised as loss, disguised as pain.
Sudden turns you never planned
Lead trembling feet to firmer land.
And day by day, through scar and flame,
Your destiny learns its true name.
Not written once, nor sealed in stone,
But shaped by the truth you face alone.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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