You laugh at them. You point your finger and call them a fool. Their silence amuses you, their gentleness becomes your joke, and the crowd joins your laughter as if kindness were weakness. It feels enjoyable today, sweet on your tongue like careless victory. Their patience becomes your stage, their humility your entertainment. But time is a quiet witness. It watches without speaking, It writes its lessons slowly in the turning pages of life. A day will come When laughter turns into tears. The echoes of your mockery will return to your own ears like thunder across an empty sky. Situations will arise without warning, storms without hands to beat you Yet heavy enough to break your pride. Pain will arrive quietly, And you will feel the trembling of a heart that once laughed too loudly. And that fool, that funny person you once mocked, may stand in the distance, not laughing, but witnessing your tears, your shaking voice, Your falling ego. For life has a patient way of bending the tallest p...
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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