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...
Not the tender arc of a smile born of light,
but that crooked, self-serving crescent you wear,
a grin that feeds on silence,
that drinks from the well of its own reflection,
curved not by joy, but by a hunger unnamed.
It rests upon your lips like a quiet conspiracy,
a subtle betrayal of the soul’s softer language,
where warmth once lingered
but now retreats into corners unvisited,
afraid of what it might awaken.
Behind it all, behind it,
a wilderness of thought, untamed and relentless,
where reason falters, and shadows take root.
There, your mind becomes a chamber of murmurs,
echoing with fragments too jagged to speak aloud.
They coil in silence, those thoughts,
serpentine and patient,
sliding between the folds of your conscience,
whispering of things undone,
yet aching to be done.
Cruelty does not arrive with thunder.
No, it approaches gently,
knocking with delicate persistence
upon the fragile doors of your restraint.
Tap… tap… a rhythm so faint,
it masquerades as curiosity.
And you listen.
You always listen.
There is a strange intimacy in that darkness,
a closeness between impulse and permission,
where lines blur, and meaning dissolves,
and the soul, once certain,
begins to question its own reflection.
Kindness, in your world, has grown thin,
not vanished, no…
but stretched like a fragile thread
across a widening void.
It trembles at the slightest disturbance,
frays at the edges of your indifference,
barely holding form
in a place where warmth no longer lingers.
Once, it may have bloomed within you,
soft as morning light,
unassuming, unguarded.
But now it survives only in remnants,
faint impressions of what once was whole.
Your grin conceals this erosion well.
It speaks of control, of composure,
of someone untouched by inner storms.
Yet beneath its surface
lies a quiet unraveling,
a descent not marked by chaos,
but by a chilling stillness.
For madness is not always loud.
Sometimes it is refined,
draped in elegance,
hidden behind measured words
and carefully chosen silence.
And so you walk among the unaware,
bearing that grin like a signature,
a mark of something unresolved,
something watching from within.
Not your smile,
for that would betray a flicker of light.
But this… this is something else entirely:
a mirror turned inward,
reflecting only the shadows
You have chosen to keep.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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