Why is it that we call them possessions;
they are not things that we really own;
they are subject to stranger’s discretions;
once we die; and our soul goes home.
We don’t, ever, really own anything;
just store; or carry them around.
Temporary, is all the joy they bring;
no permanance is ever found.
We watch the homeless, with curiosity;
rolling their belongings in grocery carts;
while we stride, in ultimate pomposity;
flawed judgement, overiding our hearts.
Large warehouses; masquerading as home;
store all the trinkets of life, we’ve bought;
even an expensive automobile, on loan;
all; what dust from the Master wrought.
What we covet, is ownership, itself;
the ability to fill our empty nest;
what we buy, adorns many a shelf;
to be shown off; on request.
After all of this life’s many generations;
we’ve learned so little of what must;
life need not be filled with complications;
God’s love, demands only trust.
We need not strive to be oppressors;
no reason at all to become obsessed;
we are no longer the possessors;
for we’ve become the possessed.
When it’s time for us to leave this place;
most people’s possessions fill a bus;
all possessions, are garbage, and space;
we don’t own them; they own us.