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...
The forest stands dark and breathing,
trees twisted like ancient thoughts,
their shadows whispering warnings
to every step that dares to enter.
Eyes glow between tangled roots,
animals move with silent command,
claws, wings, and hidden breaths
Obey laws older than fear itself.
Rare plants rise from the damp earth,
thorns guarding fragile beauty,
poison and healing sharing one stem,
Life balanced on divine precision.
Thunderstorms rumble through the canopy,
not spoken, yet deeply heard
a power unseen but undeniable,
holding every leaf in place.
In this fearful, living cathedral,
where danger and wonder entwine,
God’s power unveils itself clearly:
order within chaos,
life within shadow,
and purpose within the wild.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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