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 walks with destiny beside it,
a quiet shadow we rarely see,
each step we take feels chosen late,
Yet traced long before memory.
When days grow heavy on your chest,
and hope feels thinner than your breath,
remember—this path you struggle on
was written before your birth and breath.
Storms were inked into your story,
tears knew your name before they fell,
But so did the strength you haven’t met,
And victories time has yet to tell.
You are not lost, nor walking wrong,
even when the road feels unclear,
for destiny bends, but never breaks,
It walks with you, always near.
Trust the script you cannot read,
the chapters still unseen,
What feels like an ending today
may be a bridge, not a closing scene.
Life is heavy, yes—but meaningful,
Every burden holds a sign:
You were written with purpose,
And your destiny keeps time.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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