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...
Memory is a slave,
a quiet servant kneeling
before the throne of conscience.
It does not choose its master,
nor does it sleep when summoned.
It waits in the corridors of the mind,
dusting the frames of yesterday,
polishing the silver of forgotten laughter,
guarding the bruised relics of sorrow.
It obeys the whisper of the soul.
Where two souls once lingered,
time stitched its fragile tapestry,
threads of shared sunsets,
of trembling hands in winter air,
of words that built cathedrals
or shattered glass between them.
Good or bad,
tender or tempestuous,
Every moment is branded
with an invisible fire.
Even if their footsteps diverge,
even if they cross paths like strangers
beneath a sky that once held their promises,
The heart remains an archive,
sealed, sacred, unburned.
For memory does not dissolve
with distance.
It does not perish
with pride.
It serves conscience faithfully,
summoning faces in quiet rooms,
replaying echoes in sleepless nights,
reminding us of who we were
When we stood beside another.
Memory is a slave,
Yet powerful in its obedience.
It binds us to the tenderness we tasted,
to the wounds we survived,
to the love we dared to hold.
And though people may part
like rivers forced apart by stone,
their waters remember
the place they once merged.
For memory,
a slave of conscience,
carries every crossing, every farewell,
and lays them gently,
or heavily,
within the chambers of the heart.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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