There is a place inside you No map has ever traced, a quiet room behind the ribs where light forgets to stay. No one sees it when you smile, No one hears it when you speak. It moves beneath your laughter like a river running deep. It is yours alone to carry, not carved for other hands, a language made of silence Only your soul understands. Some mornings it is heavier, a stone you cannot name, And still you rise and wear your life as if it were the same. But pain, it does not leave you when ignored or pushed away, it waits within the folds of time, it learns you day by day. It is not your enemy, though it cuts without a sound; it is the truth you buried but still lives underground. And yes, there are nights it breaks you, when endurance feels too wide, when even breath feels borrowed And there is nowhere left to hide. Yet somehow you continue, not because you do not fall, but because within the breaking You still answer life’s call. You learn to walk beside it, not beneath it, not above...
Within the depths of your being
lie the awakened ruins of your own making,
silent consequences stirring
like restless spirits
beneath the soil of memory.
Your deeds were not fleeting shadows.
They were dark imprints
pressed upon the tender spirits
of innocent souls,
souls that carried no armor
against the sharpness of your cruelty.
With hands unburdened by mercy
You carved sorrow into living hearts,
your actions descending
like a merciless blade
through the fragile chambers of trust.
Such wounds do not wither.
They settle deep,
beyond the reach of time,
beyond the mercy of forgetting.
They become echoes
that linger within the marrow of remembrance.
Your cruelty did not merely pass through lives;
It rooted itself
within the quiet gardens of the human heart,
where pain grows slowly
And memory refuses to die.
And so the earth remembers.
For every soul you wounded
became a field you unknowingly tilled.
Every act of malice
was a seed pressed firmly
into the dark soil of consequence.
Now the harvest rises.
Not of peace,
not of forgiveness,
But of the very crop
Your hands once sowed.
Hatred.
A bitter bloom
growing from the ground
Your own cruelty prepared.
For the soil of life is ancient and faithful,
it returns, without error or mercy,
the exact seed
A man chooses to plant.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
Comments