Three

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.