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...
The thoughts of you,
I drown within them slowly,
like waves that never learned
how to let the shore rest.
They rise without warning,
pulling me under in silence,
where even breathing feels like remembering.
They come uninvited,
soft at first, then overwhelming,
carrying echoes of laughter
that no longer belongs to the present.
I hear you in the quiet,
in the spaces between seconds,
in the places I tried so hard to empty.
Memories of both of us
linger in quiet corners of my mind,
replaying moments
as if time refused to move forward.
Every glance, every word,
every touch we once held onto,
they remain untouched by forgetting.
Your name,
it does not fade,
it settles deep within my soul,
like something carved, not written.
I whisper it without sound,
feel it without meaning to,
as if my heart memorized you too well.
I try to forget,
I truly do,
but forgetting feels like betrayal
to something that once felt eternal.
How do I erase a feeling
that once felt like home?
How do I silence what still echoes within me?
So I deny the truth,
wrap it in silence,
hide it beneath distractions,
pretend the absence does not ache.
I tell myself I’ve moved on,
that I’ve grown past the past,
but even lies grow tired of being repeated.
Because truth has a voice,
and it whispers in familiar places,
the streets we walked,
the air that once carried your presence.
It lingers in songs,
in passing faces,
in moments that should mean nothing, but don’t.
Where memories were made,
I now stand alone,
surrounded by ghosts
only my heart can see.
Every step feels heavier there,
like the ground remembers us
more clearly than I wish it did.
And still, somehow,
in all this quiet ruin,
you remain,
unforgotten,
unspoken,
undone.
Not as you were,
but as you left me,
a feeling that refuses to fade,
a story without an ending,
a name that still lives
where I once tried to let go.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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