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...
He walks with a smile
that shines like the sun,
telling sweet stories
to everyone.
His words are polished,
his manners refined,
but hidden intentions
sit deep in his mind.
He searches for women
who stand on their own,
who built their dreams
from seeds they had sown.
The ladies who struggled,
who weathered the rain,
who carried their burdens
through hardship and pain.
He praises their courage,
their strength and their grace,
while quietly plotting
to take their safe place.
His compliments sparkle,
his promises flow,
like rivers that seem deep
but are shallow below.
He says, "You're amazing,
the strongest I've seen,"
yet envies the kingdom
she built in between.
The independent lady
believes in his care,
until she discovers
there's emptiness there.
For he loved the harvest,
but never the field.
He wanted the treasure,
not wounds that had healed.
And when she grows weary
of carrying two,
his affection fades
like the morning dew.
He leaves without warning,
without looking back,
another strong woman
left filling the crack.
The village winds whisper,
the old people say:
"A cunning man's shadow
never chooses to stay."
For love is not taking
what someone has grown.
Love stands beside strength;
it doesn't claim the throne.
And somewhere a lady,
with wisdom hard-earned,
will see through the mask
before she gets burned.
She'll keep her heart guarded,
her spirit set free,
for true love adds branches
to a flourishing tree.
While cunning men wander,
their games growing old,
forever chasing silver
while losing pure gold.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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