Sun And Rue Poem by PJ Moon

The sun, a beacon of hale;
how steady is its rising.
Blissfully it burns, scorching
the earth, the pate, the conniving.

Searching rays expose the charade;
my cover, our cloak, your veil.
A holy conflagration, a purifying flare
mocks my gnashing, my condemnable lashing.

Blindness was surmised the cure.
But, at long last, fettered and lost,
am I upon whom the sun beats.

The rue, the rue, balefire of wrath and judgment!
Under the eye of the sun, I mournfully plead for mercy.