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...
They thought the board was simple,
black and white, a quiet war of squares.
They moved with smug precision,
fingers light with borrowed flair.
A pawn, they thought, stood trembling,
small and slow and easy prey.
“A fool across the table,”
Their confident eyes would say.
They nudged their pieces forward,
with laughter in their breath,
not seeing silent footsteps
being laid beneath their chess.
Across the board, a smile appeared,
gentle, calm, and thin,
the kind that hides a thousand plans
patiently waiting within.
A bishop slid unnoticed,
a knight curved through the air,
each move a whispered secret
They were far too proud to hear.
Still, they grinned at every turn,
certain they had won,
never feeling karma’s shadow
creeping square by square, undone.
Then silence filled the board at last.
The smile remained the same.
One final piece stepped softly forward—
and ended the game.
No anger in the victory,
No thunder in the mate.
Just two quiet words lay neatly down:
Checkmate.
Your plate.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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