Sunlit Mockery

If anger was passion I’d burn down a city.
If I was pure beauty I’d mask your deceit.
But now there is nothing,
Only pure hypocrisy left for the dead and torn.
Where you enter with your melancholy approach,
And your macabre body lies beyond your words,
As you speak of forgiveness.
Oh Forgive me, gentle beauty,
Dare I kowtow?
Yet your egregious shoes show no mercy.