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...
What you did in secret
still lingers in your heart,
a quiet shadow breathing
where daylight falls apart.
It walks beside your conscience,
your closest friend in thought,
whispering in the stillness
of battles no one fought.
You’ll remember it in silence,
in hours no one sees,
when laughter fades to echoes
and night drops to its knees.
Live with it,
for it has made its home in you.
No hand can reach and pull it free,
No lie can make it untrue.
Only God has seen the hidden,
the deed you thought concealed;
The heavens hold the record
No darkness ever sealed.
Not even you can erase it,
nor time undo its art,
for what was born in secrecy
is carved upon your heart.
So carry it through your lifetime,
let truth be what you learn,
for secrets kept in shadow
are fires that always burn.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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