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...
They speak from tables heavy with bread,
Hands soft from never begging the day,
Calling cruelty order, calling silence sense,
Naming nonsense, the tongue of the poor.
From towers built on borrowed backs,
They rain down laws like cold, sharp stones,
Mistaking hunger for laziness,
And rags for a chosen skin.
Poor orphans wander with empty bowls of hope,
Stomachs singing the song of absence,
Eyes trained to search for mercy
In streets where mercy learned to hide.
Abuse wears gold and speaks with pride,
Its laughter loud, its conscience thin,
While small hands clutch the ache of night,
And learn too early how to endure.
For them, life is an open wound,
No salve, no shelter, no gentle hand,
Pain stitched into every morning,
And reopened by each setting sun.
Yet still they breathe. Still, they stand.
Bones carrying more courage than crowns,
Waiting for a world to remember
That hunger is a normal thing,
And being poor is not a sin.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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