You laugh at them. You point your finger and call them a fool. Their silence amuses you, their gentleness becomes your joke, and the crowd joins your laughter as if kindness were weakness. It feels enjoyable today, sweet on your tongue like careless victory. Their patience becomes your stage, their humility your entertainment. But time is a quiet witness. It watches without speaking, It writes its lessons slowly in the turning pages of life. A day will come When laughter turns into tears. The echoes of your mockery will return to your own ears like thunder across an empty sky. Situations will arise without warning, storms without hands to beat you Yet heavy enough to break your pride. Pain will arrive quietly, And you will feel the trembling of a heart that once laughed too loudly. And that fool, that funny person you once mocked, may stand in the distance, not laughing, but witnessing your tears, your shaking voice, Your falling ego. For life has a patient way of bending the tallest p...
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
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