My love is unequivocal. To sin,
a manor born, and in that house we dwell,
us mortal billions. Begin
to understand, I beg. The hell
I fear is not a Middle Age dungeon.
I would not hurt you if I could.
For my eternal condition
is just as tied to origins of wood
and rock. The bleak, corrupted earth.
That your urges are of Sodom
does not mean mine are worth
a damn. The caul of man drips with venom.
The hell I fear is death without my God.
But we are still brothers, from womb to sod.
As if my test must be harder - because
when I was twelve the core of my being
refused to take the mould, but paused
instead at my own sex - Iím told a ring
cannot be mine. We fight in sight
of God and governors for what should be
a simple right, a human right
enjoyed as a matter of course, though we
are pointlessly denied. We win,
or think we do. The violence and cold
we felt outside Loveís gates, the sin
that you claimed lived in us, lost hold.
But now, again, you lash out in your hate
and try to lock Loveís businesses, too late.