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...
Fear wears a crown and calls itself pride,
Standing tall on borrowed authority.
Its voice is loud, its heart is hollow,
A drum of dominance beating over silence.
Before you stands an educated wife,
A mind refined, a spirit awake,
Yet you bind her brilliance with invisible chains,
Turning partnership into quiet captivity.
You speak to her as though she were unthinking clay,
As though her eyes do not witness your cruelty,
As though her mind does not measure every lie
You dress in love and discipline as care.
You reprogram devotion into obedience,
Not from strength, but from terror,
The terror that she may rise beyond you,
That her light might expose the smallness you hide.
So you shrink her world to soothe your wounds,
Mistaking control for leadership,
Confusing fear with respect,
And dominance with worth.
Your insecurity learns the language of narcissism,
A mirror polished only for yourself,
Where her reflection is erased,
And only your fragile image remains.
Know this: pride built on fear will always rot.
Power born of intimidation starves the soul.
And no matter how tightly you script her silence,
Truth waits patiently,
Watching, remembering,
Unafraid.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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