Even in dreams, he knew no peace,
As the reservoirs of his memories were then released.
Every time he closed his eyes, it was always the same,
Them throwing stones as well as the blame.
Unable to die, he survived on his own,
From place to place was where he would roam.
But wherever he went, it was always the same,
They would all run, even the lame.
He never knew kindness, he never knew love,
Though once his heart was pure, white like a dove.
His soul was corrupted, twisted and crushed,
He had no use for empathy so he let it rust.
When death finally came for him, he went without a fight,
His body decomposed but his spirit wouldn't take flight.
He just wouldn't leave, he was in too much pain,
So much that it was more than he could restrain.
Deep down inside he was just a scared little child,
With bloodied broken wings that were ruthlessly defiled.
They were the monsters, so evil and cruel,
For transforming that poor boy and playing him a fool.
So strong was his anger, his fury, his hatred,
That even in death, he drove them all mad.
The reason why I can see through his eyes so clear,
For when I was nine, I was almost drowned for being queer.
We are what we are, though treated that way,
What we were born with is here to stay.
If it makes us filth, let it be then,
For the world will change at only God knows when.
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