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...
I am feeling cold,
yet no frost crowns the fields,
no winter wind bruises the air.
The sun stands indifferent above me,
and still my skin trembles
as though exiled into snow.
It is not the season.
It is the silence.
The air around me crackles
with unspoken verdicts,
with glances sharpened into quiet blades.
Goosebumps rise
not from weather,
but from the nearness of disdain.
I do not know,
am I wrong?
Am I the fracture in this fragile house?
Or merely the mirror
no one wishes to face?
Hatred hangs like invisible mist,
entering my lungs
without permission.
A helping soul—once open-palmed,
now stands unanswered.
My offered kindness
returns unopened,
as though compassion itself
were contraband.
Good deeds,
once planted with trembling hope,
have been uprooted,
their memory erased
as if they had never dared to bloom.
Blood became water.
Thinned.
Diluted.
Unrecognizable.
Those who share my name
look upon me
as though I have trespassed
against some sacred code.
Their eyes pronounce sentence
without trial.
As if I were a sinner.
And perhaps the cruellest cold
is this:
to be judged without crime,
to be exiled without departure,
to stand among your own
and feel foreign.
What a merciless world,
where warmth is rationed,
where love is conditional,
where truth is unwelcome
if it disturbs comfort.
Still,
beneath this trembling skin,
a pulse endures.
Not frozen.
Not extinguished.
For even in climates without winter,
even in hearts that turn to stone,
I remain_
breathing,
aching,
alive.
And that, perhaps,
is my quiet defiance
against the cold.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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