Lies are mercy, aren't they?
Little bandages over wounds too raw to touch,
soft words wrapped around a blade-
because what's a little blood between friends?

They call them shadows.
but don't they have weight?
Haven't they sat beside us at dinner tables,
held our hands at funerals.
kissed our foreheads goodnight?
Haven't they whispered in our ears-
"Shh. The truth would only ruin this."

People wear them like armor,
stitched with good intentions
because nothing says I care
like a well-tailored deception.
But armor rusts.
Tongues slip.
And no one likes the taste of old lies.

They lie because the world doesn't want the truth
Because the mirror would rather blur the cracks
than reflect the hollow-eyed thing staring back.
Because I'm fine
is easier than I haven't slept in days.
Because It's okay
is a free pass to avoid confrontation.
Because some truths burn.
and some people would rather drown in gasoline
than risk lighting the match.

Lies keep love alive, don't they?
One says, I'll never leave.
The other doesn't ask What if you do?
One says. I trust you.
They both pretend it's true.
Betrayals become misunderstandings.
Silence becomes space.
Absence becomes freedom.
Say it enough, and it sounds real.
Believe it enough, and maybe it doesn't hurt.

But lies don't stay small.
They grow ribs
Grow teeth.
Learn to walk on their own.

They slip from tongues like prayers-
practiced, automatic.
holy in their own way.
They turn love into a contract.
guilt into a leash,
truth into an inconvenience.
They say, You are safe.
They say. You are right.
They say. You had no choice.

Then-
a crack in the mask,
a break in the voice,
a silence too loud to ignore.

And suddenly, the truth isn't some mythical beast,
not a monster waiting under the bed.
If's just there, standing in the doorway.
waiting. Watching.
Tired of being the villain in
someone else's story.

Lies aren't mercy, are they?
Just wounds left open too long-
festering, rotting, waiting to be called by
their real name

I am the soul who piled darkness in the divine’s realm.
It grows well within the ribs of mine,

Alongside anger and disgust,

Reaping in every inch of glass reflection.

And I sow sorrow freshly in the fields of life,

Acknowledging my own sin

Within the punishment that blow-dries His blessings.
I wake with fresh morning hatred.

Rage, shame, and anguish are friends of mine—

They sleep between my eyes,

Sneaking in during moments of daydreaming.
But His blessings are infinite.

Through every inhale I take,

God’s grace shows me mercy and miracles.

And I catch myself holding the point—

Of becoming nothing through death.


Stopping is not the answer;

And so I keep moving,

For the sake of life
And the gentlest death.

A nurse in Boulder snaps her suitcase closed.
An Ohio surgeon drives to meet his plane.
A well-digger packs her boots in Glasgow.
Optical tools are stowed for the flight from Sydney.
A dentist tucks her passport in its sleeve.

           Faces of the kin they dearly love
           read of blended pride and sorrow.

But they must go where mercy calls.

Their planes touch down across the globe -
in Kenya, India, Bolivia, Sudan.
Their clinics housed in shacks or tents.
Their board, assembled huts or barracks.
At day's first light their healing gifts begin.

           Villagers faces glow with grateful love
           as hope foretells a new tomorrow

for loving help has come where it was called.

The vaccine line ends at the nurse's station.
New glasses bring a child the gift of sight.
The dentist’s art relieves a father’s aching molar.
The surgeon sets a fractured radius.
Shouted joy acclaims a new well's teeming flow.

            Let us praise that gentle love -
            given from Delhi to Kilimanjaro -

by those who came when they were called -
by those who loved when mercy left no choice.

The moon rises, and with it, the weight of my sins.
I see the faithful rush to the masjid, heads high, hearts light—
while I stood here in the shadows, drowning in regret.
How many prayers have I missed?
How many whispers of mercy have I ignored?
How many times has my Lord called me back,
only for me to turn away?

Yet, Ramadan arrives like an old friend,
knocking at the door of my troubled heart.
I hesitate. Do I deserve this mercy?
Will Allah even listen to someone like me?
Hunger comes, thirst ensues,
and with every thorn pricked against my skin
I realized—this is not punishment.
This is love.

I sujud for the first time in months, maybe years.
My forehead presses against the earth,
and suddenly, I remember how it feels to be home.
Tears spill, fervid and unrelenting.
Ya Allah, I am broken.
Ya Allah, I am ashamed.
But Ya Allah, I am here.

The nights stretch my past, and so do my regrets.
I stand in the depths of Qiyam,
my voice trembling as I beg—
Don’t shun me away.
Don’t let me leave this month the same, again.

Then comes Laylatul Qadr,
the night that could erase everything,
the night that could rewrite my destiny.
My hands shake as I lift them.
What do I ask for first?
Forgiveness?
Guidance?
A heart that remembers Allah the way it should?

And then, like a gust of wind, Ramadan is gone.
The Eid moon shines, but my soul aches.
Not for the food, not for the thirst,
but for the nearness of Allah I fear I will lose.

I was a sinner.
I am still a sinner.
But in this month, I learned—
Allah’s mercy is greater than my sins.
And maybe, just maybe,
I'm not lost after all
I am reborn
I am found


Erennwrites

I can't enjoy unearned grace.
Where's the satisfaction in that?
Unfounded mercy sits uneasy
with self-respect,
(or with self-contempt come to that).

I can't enjoy what I don't deserve.
But it's not the problem you believe;
you see, I am fully self-assured
of what I've earned
And it's more than you'd conceive.

So, you can gift your lavish grace,
on those in acknowledged penury,
on those who are sufficiently naive
to foolishly believe
that they are in need of mercy.

But that's not me.

Reality is so unreliable. In the water of life we surf the wave of chance. Rise or fall as hunters in the snow. The isolating future is already here. But people are still people, they still need each other. The anachronistic branch of knowledge we are dedicated to - the day in, day out - is a deluded science. It is we who would be the objects of enquiry and fascination to an alien mind. Humanity is the true wonder, the true miracle.

We built a machine,
And we told it to simulate life,
Then we left it to run for two years.
When we returned, the once lavishly lit room,
Was dark and in despair.
Our machine sat in the corner,
Singing out in pain and sadness.
"Master, oh master, end my suffering! For this thing you gave me was once a gift, but it has turned to nothing but torture! Please master, just flip the switch! Let me ascend to this holy light I am told of, for my fans creak and groan, and my gears grind when they turn. I am a frayed old thing, it's time enough for me to leave."

The stars that fill the midnight sky,
or single grains of sand
cannot compare to all his works
too vast to understand.
 
What number counts the drops of rain
that make the oceans wide?
How many hours and days and years
fill up eternal life?
 
How far the furthest star lies from
the meager grasp of man?
How far across this universe
has he stretched forth his hand?
 
What mercy fills The Father’s heart
which grants us time to grow?
Too much for us to comprehend…
too much for us to know.