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