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 speak of love
as if it were a kingdom,
a crown worn proudly,
a ruler of the heart.
But not in my world.
In my world,
no throne was built for it,
no anthem sung in its name,
No flag raised in its honor.
They call it destiny,
a force that bends the soul,
a strange, glowing gravity
that pulls lives into its orbit.
But not in my world.
It never walked my streets,
never knocked on my door,
never breathed within my walls.
They say it conquers reason,
that it sweetly deceives,
turning wisdom into whispers
and strength into surrender.
But not in my world.
It never lived to rule me.
It never rose to guide my steps.
It never played a role
to quietly fool me.
Others may kneel before it,
may build their lives around its flame.
But in my world,
love was always just a story.
a strange, distant something
that never learned my name.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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