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...
In the house where the wallpaper peels
like old confessions,
laughter survives first.
Not in the kitchen
where the clocks hold their breath,
nor in the doorway
where apologies rot in the frame,
but in dark corners.
There, beneath the stairs,
behind coats smelling of rain and cigarettes,
someone once laughed so hard
the dust woke up dancing.
The sound stayed.
Even now, midnight gathers itself
in the sharp mouths of rooms,
and grief walks carefully,
counting its silverware,
checking the locks twice.
Still...
from the corner near the furnace,
a crooked little laugh escapes,
warm as contraband.
It knows things.
It knows sorrow is heavy
but never balanced.
Knows fear hates being mocked.
Knows shadows loosen
when somebody grins inside them.
So the laughter waits there,
knees tucked to its chest,
bright-eyed as a stray cat,
refusing extinction.
And sometimes,
when the whole house aches with silence,
it rises,
small at first,
a cracked teacup sound,
a thief of funerals,
until even the dark
has to laugh along.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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