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...
Lower your voice We are not your mates. This is not your house, and your echo does not own the walls. Your pride towers beyond measure, standing where humility never learned to breathe. You wear power like a weapon, swinging it in every room you enter, mistaking fear for respect. Your pride is loud, loud like violence not always striking, but always threatening. It bruises the air, forces silence to bow. Power has fooled you, convinced you that command is character, That volume is authority, that dominance is destiny. Do not teach us that the world is brutal because you choose to be. Cruelty is not nature; It is a decision you make daily. Lower your voice. Strength does not shout. True power stands still, and needs no one to kneel. © 2026 Gloria Penelope