Saint Simon

After all these implements and texts designed by intellects

so vexed to find evidently there's still so much that hides

and though the saints dub us divine in ancient fading lines

their sntiment is just as hard to pluck from the vine

I'll try hard not to pretend,

allow myself no mock defense...

as I step into the night

Since I don't have the time nor mind to figure out the nursery rhymes

that helped us out in making sense of our lives

the cruel, uneventful state of apathy releases me

I value them but I won't cry every time one's wiped out

I'll try hard not to give in,

batten down to fare the wind

rid my head of this pretense

allow myself no mock defense...

as I step into the night

Mercy's eyes are blue and when she places them in front of you

nothing really holds a to the solemn warmth you feel inside of you