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...
When you drape deceit upon my name,
do not expect me to wilt like a wounded flower.
I am not fragile porcelain
set upon the shelf of your amusement.
I am flint against steel,
And your trickery is the spark
you never learned to fear.
You thought your are clever,
weaving velvet lies with a silver tongue,
masking intent behind honeyed breath.
But I taste falsehood
the way wolves taste blood in winter air.
Understand this,
My stillness is not surrender.
It is a calculation.
It is the ocean before the tempest,
the hush before cathedrals collapse.
When I react,
it is not noise,
It is reckoning.
I do not scatter madness blindly;
I distill it.
I refine it into something precise,
a blade forged in the furnace of betrayal.
You call it fury,
I call it balance restored.
For when someone dares
to outwit my patience,
to gamble with my trust,
they awaken something ancient,
a law older than pride:
Karma.
And I,
I become its instrument.
Not cruel without cause,
not wrathful without wound,
but inevitable.
So tread lightly
with your clever disguises.
For when you fool me,
You do not break me,
You summon the part of me
that does not tremble,
does not retreat,
Do not forget.
You summon the storm
That answers deception
with thunder.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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