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 was gentle once,
soft as morning light on open hands,
And joy came without asking
How much would it cost later?
Then hardship arrived unannounced,
a language I did not know how to speak.
Pain felt foreign, heavy, unfair
I was never trained to suffer.
I searched old smiles for shelter,
wondered where the sweetness went,
how laughter turned into endurance,
and comfort learned to disappear.
Every day demanded adjustment,
a quieter heart, a stronger spine.
I learned to bend without breaking,
to carry grief like a second skin.
Suffering taught me slowly, cruelly,
How to survive without sweetness,
how to adapt when hope feels distant,
And strength is born from staying.
I am still learning this life,
still aching for what once was,
But here I stand, changed, enduring
proof that even sorrow can be survived.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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