Possession cannot be an obsession.
One does not possess objects whole.
But borrow them on a trip through time.
Returning them, to float away with wills.
Upon rivers of life, being shared by others.
Riches born upon heritage, lost at death.
Prestige built over years, only to evaporate.
Wealth of one found, lost in a secluded tomb
That must now lie in state of decomposition,
Migrating souls looking into heavenís equality.
Possession such a momentary splice of time.
D.Lester 03/19/06 ©
De-Terminated poet, somewhere in America not on company time.