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 curtain of death hangs heavy and black, Is it a veil, or a door unseen? It sways in silence, waiting still, Between the worlds we’ve known and been. Just when the days feel safe and whole, When laughter learns to settle in, It falls without a warning sound And claims a name, a face, a kin. One chair grows cold. One voice goes still. A room forgets a familiar breath. We stand in shock, our questions raw, Staring into the cloth of death. Why is it cruel? Why no delay? No borrowed days, no gifted years? Why does it close without a choice? Unmoved by love, untouched by tears? It does not ask. It does not pause. It does not count the prayers we say. It chooses from the ones we love And draws them suddenly away. Families fracture in its wake, Time stumbles, hearts forget their beat, And still the curtain never parts To show us where the souls retreat. We only know it falls when it will, On whom it wills, in quiet breath, Leaving us here with empty hands And questions sewn in cloths...