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...
Poverty claimed my heart
without asking for permission.
It moved in quietly,
then stayed long enough
to feel permanent.
Now I cannot tell
What is good
And what is bad,
Everything feels the same,
flat, muted,
colorless.
Life wears only one shade to me,
and it is neither dark nor bright,
just endless grey.
Hunger no longer frightens me.
It is a language my body understands.
Sorrow no longer surprises me.
It sleeps beside me each night.
I have grown familiar
with empty cupboards
and heavy thoughts.
Poverty has become
my comfort zone.
Its rough edges no longer cut,
They shape me.
Its silence no longer echoes,
It settles.
This is the ground I stand on.
This is the air I breathe.
This is how I live,
between need and endurance,
between wanting and accepting,
between breaking
and somehow continuing.
And yet,
buried deep beneath the numbness,
There is something small
that refuses to die.
A quiet hope.
Not loud.
Not certain.
Just a whisper that maybe,
one day,
a miracle will find its way to me.
Maybe the grey will crack.
Maybe color will return.
Until then,
I survive.
And I wait.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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