Thee 3

I often speak with myself but I am not mad.
Echoes are agreeable conversationalists.
Discussions self centered and petty
Make my knees ache and palms sweaty.

Silence is coy but an excellent audience.
A confidant that utters like deaf.
We speak for hours or a moment or so.
Reminiscing, memories, only he and I know.

Then the shadows stare me to sleep.
Following my day, consuming my night.
I mold shade upon my wall as a creature’s visage.
Or am I made in my shadow’s image?

And echoes and silence and shadows contend.
These three, yet one, I call them a men.