He Gives and Takes Away

My hand is gripping the things I call mine. The things I build myself from, and out of, and for. My hand begs the question "Can I possess?"

I need ownership to feel alive, but is feeling alive and being a living soul the same thing?

In my pile of comfort, covered in expensive feathers, plucked from expendable geese, I try to hide from possibility and from providence. From the taker.

Life is not mine. They are not mine. She is not mine. Is anything mine?