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 is not one colour,
It is a wandering spectrum,
spilled across the canvas of breath.
Crimson of courage,
Indigo of doubt,
golden streaks of fleeting joy
caught between storm-grey hours.
Let the wind speak.
Do not curse its restless hands
when it tangles your certainty.
The wind is a tutor without a classroom.
It bends the tallest trees
yet teaches them how not to break.
Stand in its language.
Sway, but remain rooted.
When the sea grows furious,
hurling its white-frothed anger
against unyielding stone,
remember,
Its rage is only a chapter.
Beneath the roaring surface
lives a quiet blue pulse,
a patience older than storms.
So too within you:
Tempests may rise,
but calmness is never erased,
only waiting for its turn.
The sun does not argue with the dusk.
It withdraws in amber dignity,
trusting return.
And the moon, silver and contemplative,
does not compete with daylight.
It glows in borrowed brilliance,
teaching that even reflected light
can guide the lost.
Mountains endure centuries of pressure,
yet remain unmoved in their resolve.
Rivers surrender their shape
to carve their destiny.
One stands firm.
The other yields,
Both arrive where they are meant to be.
Nature does not hurry its becoming.
Seeds split in darkness
before they ever taste the sky.
So when your days feel buried,
remember the soil is not your grave,
It is your preparation.
Life paints in contrasts:
thunder and hush,
shadow and blaze,
fall and bloom.
Learn its palette.
Let the wind refine you,
let the sea remind you,
Let the earth steady you.
For you are not separate
from the colours of this world.
You are one of them,
changing with the light,
deepening with the storm,
and always, always
capable of calm.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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