I own nothing

I own nothing


I own nothing.
Rage storms out the front door,
grapples with the seed-crows across the fields. 
Dragonflies — whispering sweet nothings -
I'd carry them home, thickened in amber.
They fly off, untouched, untroubled.
They are not mine.

At night, when I wander in my sleep,
the ghosts that visited me are gone.
Their pitch-dark raincoats drip in the wind like shed skin.
No silverware, no book, no sound, no dream.
I own nothing.

My toes and fingers remain.
They claw at me and shout: Take!
Take! Don’t be the coward who slips away. Don’t be the  wretch who flees.
Breathe. Break the surface. Take in air. Spill it out again.
Mend the fences. Repair the stables. Fix the eaves.
Flood the burning house.
I own nothing.

(© Achim Spengler 2025)