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...
It wasn’t meant to last,
That’s what we said at the start,
like two travelers sharing a fire
just to warm the night,
never planning the morning.
We spoke in temporary words,
in almosts and maybes,
in careful laughter that never leaned too far
into a promise.
We told ourselves
This was just a passing season.
But love has its own language,
one that does not ask permission.
It grew quietly,
in the pauses between sentences,
in the way your name
became the first thought of my day
and the last place my mind rested at night.
It lived in small things:
fingers brushing without reason,
silence that felt full instead of empty,
eyes that lingered
just a moment too long to be nothing.
We tried to measure it,
to keep it within the lines we drew,
But love does not follow rules
written by fear.
It spills,
it stretches,
It stays.
What was meant to be brief
learned how to breathe,
How to root itself
in the spaces we left unguarded.
And suddenly,
Goodbye felt heavier than it should,
like something unfinished,
like a story that refused
to end where we placed the final page.
Because love is not always planned,
not always welcome,
not always easy.
But love is love,
and sometimes,
even when it isn’t meant to last,
It does.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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