There is a piece of paper which I do not wish to read;
It tells me of my fate in ways I think are best not known.
I fear that even reading it, my eyes might tear and bleed,
And even if they did not my mind would be overthrown.
The secrets it contains are not the ordinary ones
Of who ate what for breakfast or what goods there are to sell,
But rather larger, in my mind, so much that my heart shuns
The danger of embracing it, and flees to its own hell
Of doubt and desperation rather than investigate
The writing on the paper. Oh, I hardly dare to mention
The contents - even though you know I do not know their state -
For fear that speaking of them will negate a good intention
For on that paper, written large, I asked a while ago
If you thought you could love me: and it said check yes or no.
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