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...
You never listened to my truth,
Only the echo that pleased the room,
Never the voice that trembled alone
In nights that refused to end.
You did not witness the hours without sleep,
Where darkness rehearsed my memories,
Where trauma breathed beside me,
Heavy, intimate, impossible to escape.
You never felt the weight of betrayal,
The slow corrosion of trust,
How disdain sharpens itself quietly
And settles deep within the chest.
What I carried would have shattered you
It taught me endurance the hard way,
Bending my spirit into survival
While the world mistook silence for ease.
Wake from the slumber of comfort,
From the blindness of distance and ease,
Set down your certainty and listen
All I ask is to be heard.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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