Fickle Love

I am cursed to speak in prophecies, never to be believed
And I am forced to speak in allegories as if I live in some Orwellian dream

It is my heart that keeps a watch on the cell where my love rots
And each day, it whispers beautiful lies and unpleasant truths

The revolutionary in me fades with no battles left to wage
And in my letters, I never say much, lest I betray my love

And each time I write a poem I hope it says the things I cannot say
But, I said all that I could say and it’s not that you didn’t care, but it didn’t matter all the same

In each moment I doubt, I curse the gods, for my love may be fickle, but yours endures
All truth and reason I forsake for it takes the effort to move mountains, to deny my tongue your name

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