Literature
Love Is Love
How long have we been told love is blind?
Hundreds of Years? Thousands?
Ever since Eros,
Son of Aphrodite and carrier of love's arrows,
Decided to put on a blindfold and let fly, I suppose.
By that theory, there is no rhyme, no reason,
No indecipherable pattern that will help us guess
When, exactly, arrows will peirce, skin will tear,
And hearts will flutter, thrash, and leap,
Like a butterfly locked in a jar far too small for its pretty wings.
If love sees with the fickle heart, then,
Instead of the eyes,
So precise in their sense yet so easy to fool,
Who is to say who we should or should not love?
What kind of hypocrite is soc