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...
A bitter seed rests in your hand,
Rough on the tongue, heavy to keep,
Not easy to swallow, nor pleasant to taste,
Yet it is the fruit of the fields you reap.
It grew from the soil you once prepared,
From silent choices the earth had known,
Roots fed by deeds you scattered in time,
Now rising tall where the winds have blown.
The harvest arrives with a hardened truth,
Its skin cracked open beneath the sun,
Rotten by heat that would not forgive,
For the planting was done, and the growing begun.
Life turns its wheel like quiet karma,
Returning the seeds we buried below,
What once was sown with careless hands
Returns in the fruits we must now know.
No tears fall down to soften the ground,
No sorrow can bargain with fate’s decree,
So face the music the seasons play,
And dance to the rhythm of what must be.
For every field remembers the farmer,
Each seed recalls the hand that cast,
And the bitter fruit upon your lips
Is the echo of choices from your past.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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