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Mercy, the Stranger #poetry #poetrydaily

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...

The Harvest of Your Laziness #sadpoetry #poem #freeverse

It wasn’t real,
that connection you held up
like something rare.
It was only your restless emptiness
reaching outward,
never inward where truth lived.

There was something in you,
a rare kind of wrongness,
not loud, but steady,
growing in the quiet corners
You refused to clean.

Your habits sank deep,
roots of neglect and excuse,
feeding on your comfort,
tightening around any chance
of becoming better.

Inside your chest,
something lingered,
not wounded,
but slowly rotting
from everything you chose not to face.

Your words carried weight,
but not wisdom,
dirty with judgment,
falling on others
as if they owed you effort
You would never give yourself.

You dreamed wildly,
expected greatly,
Yet moved nowhere.
Laziness sat in you like spring,
fresh, alive,
growing stronger each day
You chose not to change.

And so you became
a tree,

Not shaped by storms,
but by stillness.
Not broken,
but unused.

A tree that stands alone,
roots deep in wasted time,
branches stretched with empty wants,
leaves green with excuses.

Alive,
but only in appearance.


© 2026 Gloria Penelope

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