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...
Break-ups do not shatter in a single sound,
they press down slowly,
a steady weight upon the chest,
as if the air itself has thickened
With everything we can no longer say.
Silence arrives first.
It stretches across the room,
pulls the curtains closed,
replaces the easy rhythm
of familiar voices and shared breath.
Where warmth once lingered,
stillness settles in its place.
The ordinary becomes unbearable,
empty chairs,
a phone that does not light up,
the absence of a name
once spoken without effort.
Loss grows loud in its quietness,
a constant awareness
that something sacred has slipped away.
Two hearts, once aligned,
Now beat alone.
Loneliness does not shout,
it hums beneath the skin,
a low reminder
of what love once sounded like.
Some words never found daylight:
Forgiveness withheld,
truths swallowed by pride,
“I’m sorry,” resting
on the edge of almost.
They linger between us,
unfinished sentences
with no ending.
And so we face the road ahead,
not together,
but side by side one final time,
before choosing separate paths.
Different directions,
different horizons,
carrying pieces of each otherWee cannot return.
The ache follows for a while,
walking quietly beside us.
Yet beneath the heaviness,
something softer begins to grow.
Peace,
slow, stubborn,
pressing its roots
into wounded ground.
It does not erase the past.
It does not silence the memory.
But it steadies the heart,
and whispers gently,
You can keep walking.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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