Intolerance
Where the seeds of love were scattered
and I reaped a random harvest,
I felt it never mattered
how the scarecrow scared the crows;
now the days limp torn and tattered
by intolerance and heartache,
and my love falls blue and battered,
petals of a dying rose.
How to make some comprehension
from intolerance and blindness,
a dilemma filled with tension
choosing not to ever see
that love holds no intention,
arbitrary by it's nature,
and will bow to no convention,
and is everything to me.
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