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...
Laughter in cold rooms,
Thin as frost along the windowpane,
Slips out of trembling lips,
Not meant, yet born,
A tremor in the stillness,
A tremble against the dark.
Walls shiver with the memory of warmth,
Curtains cling to shadows
That stretch like old regrets.
The air tastes of silence, of sighs,
Yet a laugh erupts,
A brittle flare,
A spark unwilling to die.
It is not joy, not the careless joy of youth,
But a trembling echo,
A defiance of grief that coils
Around the chest like cold iron.
It is laughter stolen
From the teeth of despair,
A brittle, unsteady bridge
Between what was,
And what cannot be.
Yes, it should not be,
No light should pierce such gloom,
Yet here it is,
Ringing hollow yet alive,
Shivering across the floorboards
Like wind through dead leaves.
It mocks the stillness,
Mocks the sorrow that waits patient and sharp,
But also honors it,
For even in the blackest folds of night,
Even where hope seems impossible,
Something insists on speaking,
On remembering
That life once sang
And once burned.
Laughter in cold rooms,
A trembling, stubborn defiance,
A flicker of warmth in frozen air,
A confession that even in despair,
We are still alive,
Still human,
Still daring to touch joy
Even when it hurts.
And when it fades,
It leaves behind a hollow glow,
A fragile residue of being,
A quiet reminder that nothing,
Not grief, not time, not absence,
Can fully erase the sound of a heart
That once tried to laugh
Even in a cold room.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
Comments