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...
Where laughter was meant to take its throne,
To bloom in warmth the heart had known,
There gathered clouds, unspoken, gray,
And gently stole the light away.
A fragile joy once danced in the air,
With careless ease, without a care,
Its echoes linger, faint and thin,
Like ghosts that whisper from within.
The walls still hold what used to be,
A melody of quiet glee,
But now they breathe a different sound,
A hollow ache, a breaking ground.
For where bright laughter should have stayed,
A softer, sadder voice was made,
Not loud, not wild, nor fierce, nor fast,
But slow as grief that’s built to last.
Tears fell like dusk upon the soul,
A silent flood without control,
Each drop a word that went unsaid,
Each shimmer filled with quiet dread.
They traced the paths of what was lost,
Of dreams undone, of tender cost,
And carved their way through hidden seams,
Disturbing long-forgotten dreams.
Oh, how the heart had dared to hope,
To stretch beyond its fragile scope,
To cradle joy with open hands,
Unaware of fate’s shifting sands.
But hope, so delicate and slight,
Can flicker weak in growing night,
And laughter, once so full and wide,
Now trembles faint, then learns to hide.
The air grew heavy, thick with sighs,
With unshed storms behind the eyes,
And silence spoke in aching tones
That settled deep within the bones.
No thunder cracked, no lightning cried,
Just sorrow blooming deep inside,
A quiet ruin, softly spread,
Where brighter days had once been led.
Each tear became a fragile thread,
From broken thoughts the heart once fed,
Weaving grief in endless streams,
Through shattered hopes and fading dreams.
And still, beneath the weight of all,
A distant echo seems to call,
A memory of laughter’s grace,
A ghost that time cannot erase.
It lingers in the quiet space,
A tender, almost sacred trace,
Reminding hearts that even pain
Once grew from joy, not born in vain.
For tears are born where love once grew,
Where something pure and bright was true,
And sorrow, deep as it may seem,
Is but the shadow of a dream.
So let them fall, those silent cries,
Like mourning stars from darkened skies,
For even in their sorrowed art,
They write the language of the heart.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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