Only Your Grave Is Really Yours

What we have, we hold: Car thieves scatter clothes, mail to make the stolen ​more​ their own. Solomon said, split the child in half; Each party gets a wing, a thigh. In the real world none lets go willingly. To have and to hold: The dust on the threshold, the wind at the eaves. There's interest on the principal until they own the whole house ​t​he dirt beneath it too. What we have, we hold onto for dear life until we have become just another something- an object someone else holds For as long as they dare, or as long as breath lasts, ​while the​ dirt lies insensate. The world's spinning a thousand miles an hour through dimensions no one can own, and can't eve​r​ sink a stake into. Your grave is still yours only so long as your bones have ​the ​ weight and girth, with which to fill it.