Blessed are those who are empty.

Blessed are those with nothing to offer but the aching of their lonely bones and quieted sighs as it hushes past their lips.

Blessed are those whose chasms of the soul have unearthed bedrock, for how much more now are they to be filled?

Blessed are those who grieve, bereaved in the dust of their disappointment.

Blessed are those who mourn through the rising and setting sun like a broken dove, circadian irrhythm.

Blessed are those whose souls know wilderness is meant to unwind the flesh’s talons along their spine, not a place they must spend the rest of time.

Blessed am I as I hit the window, again and again like an asinine cardinal, and blessed am I all the more as I realize I am not meant to stay in the emotional burnout of this disappointment.

Blessed am I as he prepares a table for me in the presence of my enemies.

And blessed am I as I dine.