Flint

Perfection is so strange in human form
The superficial hides what burns inside
Our flaws are what prevent us being gods
And I am not divine, I am alive
The man I love so steely strong and plain
Though physically he possesses grace
Devoid of affectation he is kind
An openness is found upon his face
But he is mortal, weak and sometimes he
Will ask for my protection in the night
I hold him close and oh so tenderly
Our weakness and our strength seem to unite
And when he calls my name out in the dark
The flint inside my heart begins to spark

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Author: thepoetautist

A Gay poet of fifty odd years who is currently living in Cambodia.

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