Lope's Thoughts

They thought she was a fool, a soft mind draped in silence, a fragile echo in a room of louder names, easy to bend, easier to break. So they played with her, like careless hands with a borrowed soul, tossing her dignity between their laughter, calling it harmless, calling it nothing. They carved her days into servitude, stitched obedience into her breath, until she moved like a shadow, not of the world, but of what she once was. And oh, how they performed, life, to them, a grand theatre, where they stood as authors of fate, directors of pain, believing the script belonged only to them. They wore arrogance like a crown, spoke as though consequence was a myth, as though the unseen kept no record of hands that harm and hearts they fracture. But life, Life is a quiet architect. It does not argue, It does not warn, It simply watches… and remembers. In the unseen folds of time, something began to turn, not loudly, not all at once, but like a tide shifting beneath still waters. God, in silent...

Not gently, not this time. No mercy lay upon the scale, no softening of what was sown. This is the hour when silence breaks its patience, When consequence walks in without knocking. Where hands once dealt in harm, they now tremble under a weight unseen. Where laughter rose from others’ pain, it echoes back, hollow, unforgiving. No mercy to be given here. Not where darkness was chosen with open eyes. Karma does not shout, does not warn, does not bargain. It arrives as steady as breath, as certain as time, collecting every unpaid debt. Where cruelty once stood tall, It bends. Where innocence was crushed, The earth remembers. And in that remembering, justice forms, not in anger, But in balance. For life has its own design, its quiet reckoning, its unseen hand that writes the end of every deed. Call it fate, call it truth, call it what it is, Karma.  © 2026 Gloria Penelope

They thought the board was simple, black and white, a quiet war of squares. They moved with smug precision, fingers light with borrowed flair. A pawn, they thought, stood trembling, small and slow and easy prey. “A fool across the table,” Their confident eyes would say. They nudged their pieces forward, with laughter in their breath, not seeing silent footsteps being laid beneath their chess. Across the board, a smile appeared, gentle, calm, and thin, the kind that hides a thousand plans patiently waiting within. A bishop slid unnoticed, a knight curved through the air, each move a whispered secret They were far too proud to hear. Still, they grinned at every turn, certain they had won, never feeling karma’s shadow creeping square by square, undone. Then silence filled the board at last. The smile remained the same. One final piece stepped softly forward— and ended the game. No anger in the victory, No thunder in the mate. Just two quiet words lay neatly down: Checkmate. Your plate. © ...

A bitter seed rests in your hand, Rough on the tongue, heavy to keep, Not easy to swallow, nor pleasant to taste, Yet it is the fruit of the fields you reap. It grew from the soil you once prepared, From silent choices the earth had known, Roots fed by deeds you scattered in time, Now rising tall where the winds have blown. The harvest arrives with a hardened truth, Its skin cracked open beneath the sun, Rotten by heat that would not forgive, For the planting was done, and the growing begun. Life turns its wheel like quiet karma, Returning the seeds we buried below, What once was sown with careless hands Returns in the fruits we must now know. No tears fall down to soften the ground, No sorrow can bargain with fate’s decree, So face the music the seasons play, And dance to the rhythm of what must be. For every field remembers the farmer, Each seed recalls the hand that cast, And the bitter fruit upon your lips Is the echo of choices from your past. © 2026 Gloria Penelope

When you drape deceit upon my name, do not expect me to wilt like a wounded flower. I am not fragile porcelain set upon the shelf of your amusement. I am flint against steel, And your trickery is the spark you never learned to fear. You thought your are clever, weaving velvet lies with a silver tongue, masking intent behind honeyed breath. But I taste falsehood the way wolves taste blood in winter air. Understand this, My stillness is not surrender. It is a calculation. It is the ocean before the tempest, the hush before cathedrals collapse. When I react, it is not noise, It is reckoning. I do not scatter madness blindly; I distill it. I refine it into something precise, a blade forged in the furnace of betrayal. You call it fury, I call it balance restored. For when someone dares to outwit my patience, to gamble with my trust, they awaken something ancient, a law older than pride: Karma. And I, I become its instrument. Not cruel without cause, not wrathful without wound, but inevitabl...