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...
There are two sides to every story,
Yet they choose the one who speaks the loudest,
Let them judge from a distance,
Let them think and assume what fits you best.
Their words carry no weight in your pockets,
Their judgments will never pay your bills,
They do not know the price you paid
To stand where you are, breathing today.
They never walked the miles in your shoes,
Never felt the heat of the fire within,
The quiet strength that kept you moving
Stopping would have been easier.
So let them talk in borrowed certainty,
You were busy becoming, surviving, rising,
Forged by pressure they could not endure,
Strength tempered where excuses burned away.
One day, your story will shine without permission,
Not explained, not defended, simply seen,
And those who judged from the shadows
Will witness the light they never understood.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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