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...
When the trickster comes with a smiling face,
Speaking soft words wrapped in disguise,
Thinking your mind is an empty place,
A shadow beneath his clever lies.
But rise instead, let your spirit tell,
That you are not a puppet to control,
Fool that fool and break the spell,
For strength already lives in your soul.
Show him the fire you carry within,
The will that refuses to bend or kneel,
You were never born to follow his grin,
Nor dance to the games he tries to deal.
Stand tall beyond his crafted rules,
Let wisdom be the shield you hold,
For those who prey upon silent fools
Fear hearts that are fearless and bold.
So walk your path with a steady stride,
Let truth be louder than his game,
For no false spell can long reside
Where courage burns like living flame.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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