The Present

The present is an incandescent flame,
It flickers every moment, unsteady.

The present is a flimsy tree,
that wavers with the wind,
dancing like  a strained mistress.

The present, it intertwines with the past and the future,
like untidy webs, thick and sturdy,
indistinguishable.

The last movement of my pen,
a moment lost in the past
and its next movement,
a moment caught by the future.

So where does the present rest,
Where does it get swapped with the rest,
until it gets blurred and marred.

This moment, this one by thousandth of a second,
is this my present?
Is this the moment that defines our being?
Is this the moment,
that passes over the threshold to what's next?

The present is elusive,
Like a slippery soap,
It escapes our clutches
and falls down upright.
What's remaining is the past
And what's next is the future.