Mercer's Poems
In Defeat

A curse on humanity, in all its forms.
It exists as merely vanity, and still it swarms.

And still we sit on rugged thrones. 
A race of mindless drugged drones.
The winds of history bedraggling our scruffy hair
and the scent of butchery in the air. 

And as we sit atop our gilded seat
The western ideal; the elite. 
I beg, I implore and I entreat

Understand. That mankind celebrates far too much victory.
When braver acts are committed in defeat.