quietly breeds copies of itself,

a thousand whispers in the wind,

a thousand shadows on the ground,

a thousand fingerprints on every object.

the present multiplies,

each instance a unique iteration

of a feeling or an action;

repeating itself,

with slight variations,

like a kaleidoscope,

never the same, but never truly new.

it holds us in its embrace,

whispering promises of forever,

fleeting and precious,

always slipping through our fingers;

it beckons,

to live, to feel, to be…

© KD.W.Heim