After all
|
These implements
|
And texts designed by intellects
|
We're vexed to find
|
Evidently there's still so much that hides
|
And though
|
The saints dub us divine
|
In ancient fading lines
|
Their sentiment is just as hard to
|
Pluck from the vine
|
|
I'll try hard not to pretend
|
Allow myself to mock defense
|
As I step into the night
|
|
Since I don't have 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 holds a
|
Roman candle to
|
The solemn warmth you feel
|
|
There's no measuring of it as nothing else is love
|
|
-----------------
|
Saint Simon
|
| Iron Horse |
