It’s three…
And it is me.
Haunted by my perception,
Replayed in recollection ,
Counted by my compassion.
It became passion of inspiration
Yet damper by emotion.
It’s three …
And it’s still me,
Counting a fleeting square of time, free,
Held still at the trinity.
Soon, four it became-maybe,
But now, it frost at three.
Two… it will never be.
Always three,
The past ,
The now ,
And yet to be.
It’s three,
Endlessly.
It’s me.
