There is a silent partner to our thoughts
Who lives inside our head.
He, or she, or it
Listens to our voice, spoken or unspoken
And winces at our faux pauxs
And argues silently with us.
He, or she, or it
Is afraid of the dark
And of the unknown, and
Is still a child
And walks the tightrope of the corpus callosium, and
Is a disbeliever of logic
And occasionally slips in a comment to the outside world
That startles us.
So we keep him, or her, or it caged
Like a madman in a Victorian asylum
And consult with him, or her, or it when
We are confused
And converse with him, or her, or it in the
Darkness of our mind
When we know
No one ELSE is listening
Chris Palmer July 13, 1995