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 are a memory to me,
nothing more than a fading outline
among the many faces
that once passed through my days.
I have met countless souls before you,
some who laughed beside me,
some who spoke my name
as if it meant something lasting.
Yet time carried them away
like leaves on a quiet river.
Some of them died.
Some simply disappeared
into the wide silence of life.
And strangely,
no deep wound opened in me,
no storm of grief remained.
You are like them now,
a name that drifts further each day,
a story my mind
no longer tries to finish.
Just live
as if you never met me.
It will be easier for you that way.
Do as I did,
turn your eyes forward,
walk past the echoes,
and let yesterday
close its own door.
That is how life moves
in the world I know:
people arrive like passing seasons,
and leave
as quiet memories
no longer needed. 🌫️
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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