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...
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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