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Saint Simon
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Shins
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1
After all these implements and texts designed by intellects
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So vexed to find evidently there's still so much that hides
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And though the saints dub us divine in ancient fading lines
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Their sentiment is just as hard to pluck from the vine
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I'll try hard not to pretend,
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Allow myself no mock defense
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As I step into the night
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Since I don't have the time nor mind to figure out the nursery rhymes
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That helped us out in making sense of our lives
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The cruel, uneventful state of apathy releases me
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I value them but I won't cry every time one's wiped out
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I'll try hard not to give in,
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Batten down to fare the wind
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Rid my head of this pretense
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Allow myself no mock defense
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As I step into the night
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Mercy's eyes are blue and when she places them in front of you
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Nothing really holds a to the solemn warmth you feel inside of you
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