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 know you are weary
Weary of being cast as the sacrifice
in every unfolding loss,
Weary of tending wounds
Your hands never shaped.
Your heart lies splintered,
a vessel cracked by borrowed pain,
Yet even in its ruin
It continues to beat, defiant and true.
Understand this truth:
You carry no guilt in this suffering.
You were not the error,
only the soul misplaced
among those who mistook your gentleness
for something they could bruise.
Healing is not surrender.
It is the slow remembering of who you are,
a sacred return through silence and time.
Each scar is a scripture
testifying that you endured
what would have undone others.
Remain.
This chapter, heavy with shadows,
is not the whole of your story.
The ache will loosen,
the darkness will thin,
and the pain that names you now
will one day fail to recognize you.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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