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...
He loved her in the way stories begin,
soft and convincing.
His words were sweet, like a sugarcane—
freshly cut, dripping sweetness,
impossible to doubt.
From his eyes to hers
fell a look so charming,
so carefully meant,
It felt like the truth had learned her name.
He poured his lies gently,
slow as red wine into a waiting cup—
smooth, rich, intoxicating.
She drank, believing warmth was love,
and belief made her dizzy,
made her stay.
But wine fades.
Morning comes without mercy.
Life, unfair in its honesty,
teaches harsh lessons softly at first.
Women are fooled daily, they say—
not because they are weak,
but because they hope,
because they trust sweetness
before they taste the burn.
And still, she stands,
sober now,
wiser than the lie,
carrying strength where love once sat.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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