Moments

Mankind holds two things in his hands
The future in one and the past in the other
Yet the present is never in his grasp
Always flowing away

The present is like the wind
Flowing upon his hands yet never in his grasp
The past sticks on and clings
Never to be left ever again

The future that comes is always gray
Awaiting his hands to mold its clay
And yet as maleable as it can be
It is as yet the most elusive of the tree

It is wrapped within the present
Never to unfold till the past is written
As strange as it may be
It too is the most fleeting in form and breed

Be it good and bright?
Or mayhap dark as night
None could grab a glimpse of it
Yet in his hands is where it's writ