White Fox--Chapter 4, Part 4

They crossed a four-way intersection and maintained their route along E Street.  There were no large buildings in this area of the city.  Here was an abandoned and unkempt field enclosed by an ancient, chain-link fence; here was an empty, worn billboard that towered above the trees; here rested a squat building of austere design, untouched by man for a decade.  Clusters of homes with a Victorian flare rose up on his left and added a sense of style to the otherwise dreary and rundown neighborhood.  Most pedestrians or bicyclists passed by Renardo without as much as a glance at him; when someone did notice him, he thought that the swaggering youths would sooner rob him than shake his hand.  He mumbled to himself, avoided eye contact, and continued.  The park that he and Sancho frequented appeared to his left, so he crossed the street and stepped onto the dirt path that cut through grass and under trees.

He passed a homeless woman hugging herself for warmth and sat on a bench that stretched beneath a thin oak tree.  Sancho hopped onto the vacant spot beside him and nuzzled against his arm.  Renardo looked out at the park and could not help but notice how its beauty contrasted with its unsightly surroundings.  Even Consumo Tower, that brilliant new skyscraper guarding the Sacramento River, could not compete with the effortless architecture of nature.  Patches of grass reached up between masses of red and yellow leaves that served as an autumnal floor for the park.  The young man rubbed his arms as a chill ran through his body, and he turned his head when he heard a high-pitched cry to his right.  A small family was playing a game that resembled football; a boy was running circles around his parents and shrieking with delight as they attempted to catch him.  Even when he tripped and planted his face in mud, his pure excitement was not diminished.  He leapt to his feet and proceeded to engage in some sort of victory dance while his parents laughed with him.

“Stop being so emotional, Renardo.” Sancho’s ears perked at his master’s voice.  Sensing his sadness, the dog watched him closely.  “You’re like a woman sometimes.  Just stop.”

“I hope talking to yourself isn’t a habit of yours,” said a voice coming from behind him.  “If so, you need to get that checked.”

Renardo smirked.  “How ever did you find me, Nate?”

His friend petted Sancho and gently forced him off the bench.  He sat beside Renardo.  “Firstly, it’s Nathan.  Secondly, you really seem to like this park, for some reason.  It’s a little too close to the road for my taste.  I went to your house, but you weren’t there, so I thought I’d check here.”

“Yeah, I thought I’d go for a walk.  It’s better than being inside all day.”

“And I see you brought your sidekick, Sancho, with you.”

The dog cocked his head to the side at the mention of his name.  He stared at Nathan intently, hoping that the young man would produce a hidden ball or treat.

“So, are you still planning to go to Philadelphia? Or was it Pennsylvania? Whatever.”

Renardo chuckled.  “Nate, Philadelphia is in Pennsylvania.  You’ve always been terrible at geography.”

Nate made a face at him.  “Dude, I’m getting my degree in criminal justice, OK? I don’t need to memorize the states and all that junk.  Have you looked at a map lately? There are like fifty of them now.”

“Since when?” Renardo retorted playfully.  He stared blankly at the homeless woman sitting against a tree, about ten yards to his left.  Her face was hard and contemplative as she observed her surroundings.  “But to answer your question, yes, I’m going to book the flight tonight.  I just had some things to think about in the past few days.  I wanted to make sure I had all of my bases covered.”

“One of those bases being that girl you told me about,” Nate pointed out.

“Man, don’t remind me,” said Renardo, his voice sour.  “That’s going nowhere fast.”

His friend frowned.  “Didn’t turn out well, I take it?”

“I’m sure we can talk about that later.  Unless you’d really like to see me unleash my anger on an innocent tree right now.”

“That would be hilarious,” Nate replied, “but I wouldn’t want you to re-bloody your scabbed knuckles.”

A small fleet of black birds landed on the grass before them and began to peck at the ground.  Some of the creatures watched Sancho warily, hopping back and forth in expectation of a sudden attack.  The dog looked at them for a moment, and an expression of incurable boredom marked his face.  He lay down on the grass and planted his head on the soft earth.  The homeless woman rose to her feet with sudden excitement and, after fumbling through a weatherworn knapsack, she seized a ball of foil and approached Renardo’s bench.  With a toothless smile, she unwrapped the foil and revealed the crust of an old hamburger bun.  She broke the bread, handed a piece to Renardo, and proceeded to throw crumbs on the grass.  Renardo and Nate exchanged a nonplussed glance; then, awkwardly, Renardo followed her example.

“Renardo, what are you doing?” Nate asked dryly, failing to sound serious.  “Stop feeding birds.  You have to save the city from Malvin.”

            “I know, really.” 

White Fox--Chapter 4, Part 3

The road veered northwest again, and he made a mental note that he was now on E Street.  The trees, hale and washed with color, bowed to one another across the shaded street and beckoned him on toward the west.  Renardo stepped into a crosswalk area and was amazed when a driver paused for more than three seconds to let him and his dog cross to the other side.  Of course, he was not amazed when he observed a driver behind this gracious person, fuming noticeably and inching forward.

“I’m telling you, Sancho,” said the young man, “after I save this city from Malvin, I’m going to invest in some sort of charity that helps the poor victims of road rage.  But I don’t think there’s enough money in the world for that.”

In response, Sancho urinated on a thick tree rising from a strip of grass.  He then fought against the tension of his leash; Renardo was apparently walking too slowly for him, so they both increased their speed.  They had only moved a few yards before a familiar face appeared on the other side of the street.  An elderly lady with long, grey hair and a smooth complexion walked a long-haired dachshund along the sidewalk, heading southeast.  Although she was old, she seemed as hale as the trees lining the road, and she wore an expression that was both blissful and confident.  When she saw Renardo, she smiled sweetly at him, but a sudden sadness filled her eyes.  She waved at him, and her dog nearly hyperventilated with delight once it noticed Sancho.  Renardo crossed over to her, and the dachshund proceeded to sniff and jump on the small Australian Shepherd.  Sancho did not seem impressed.

“Mrs. Garcia, it’s so good to see you,” the young man said to her, giving her a small hug.  “How are you doing?”

“Well, it’s a beautiful day, I’m still breathing, and my feet aren’t aching too badly,” the old woman replied, studying him like a loving grandmother.  “And dear Renardo, haven’t I told you? You can call me Shelley, you know.  It’s allowed.”

“I know, I know,” Renardo answered with a playful roll of his eyes.  “I grew up calling you ‘Mrs. Garcia,’ though.  Calling you by your first name is pretty weird.”

The lady chuckled.  “So you decided to get some fresh air? As fresh as it gets in Sacramento, I mean.  Don’t get me started on my allergies.”

“Trust me, I won’t.” Renardo grinned.  “I think you kept me two hours past my bedtime the last time we discussed that.”

“You’re probably right.  It sounds like something I would do.” She looked at his eyes searchingly and took one of his hands.  “Now, my dear, how are you doing? Well, I hope?”

He nodded, but did not meet her gaze.  “I—yes, Mrs. Garcia, I’m doing pretty well right now.  Things could always be better, of course.” He had known this kind woman for nearly his entire life; he owed her more than such a lame response.  “I’m still really good friends with Nate.  In fact, he came over just the other day, and we talked over coffee for a little while.  Oh, and there’s this girl I’m sort of interested in.”

“Oh, my boy, it makes me so happy to hear that,” Mrs. Garcia replied.  Her voice thickened with emotion, and happy tears formed in her eyes.  “That’s wonderful.  What’s her name?”

“Corinne,” he answered, desperately hoping that they were not distantly related.  With his luck, Corinne was a niece of hers.

“What a gorgeous name.” She released his hand and watched, amused, as her dachshund continued to vie for Sancho’s attention.  “If you two ever get serious, make sure you bring her by my house.  Any women in your life have to go by me first, Renardo.  It’s my requirement, OK?”

The young man laughed.  “OK, Mrs. Garcia.  I’ll make sure to remember that.” He looked at her, and his smile dropped into a frown.  “I’m so sorry for not coming by lately.  My mind gets distracted easily, and I always find something to occupy my time.  But that’s really no excuse.  I mean, you’re my neighbor, and I’ve known you for so many years.”

“Oh, don’t fret about that,” the lady replied with the wave of a hand.  “You’re young, and you have things to do.  We all go through it.  I’ve definitely been there, believe me.”

“No, I mean it.  I’m going to try to come by more often.  Really.”

Mrs. Garcia beamed at him and took his hand again.  “You’re a sweet boy, Renardo.  You always have been.  Never change that, you understand? You’ll do great things one day.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Garcia.  That’s very nice of you.”

She nodded, looked past him, and let go of his hand.  “Well, I suppose I should continue my exercise.  You don’t look like this at my age by just standing around talking all day.” She tugged at her dog’s leash, and the dachshund—loath to quit her display of unrequited love—followed her southeast.  “Take care of yourself, my boy.  I’ll see you again soon.”

“Take care of yourself, too, Mrs. Garcia,” he called out to her.  “It was great talking to you!”

Somehow, Sancho looked relieved when they continued their walk.  He trotted with brisk tosses of his furry feet, looking here and there with an obtruding tongue.  Renardo glanced back at his neighbor and smiled warmly.  He had met few people as amiable and selfless as Mrs. Garcia.  Shortly after the crime-plague five years ago, he had spent many hours speaking to her and her husband about its atrocious nature.  Although it had not directly affected any of them, they had considered it a healthy exercise to discuss the traumatic event.  Nate was always too busy or disinterested in the crimes—that is, until recently.  Renardo did not have many others with whom he could speak about the subject, especially now that so many years had passed. 

The day Mrs. Garcia came to his door weeping was still fresh in his mind.  Three years ago, her husband of nearly fifty years had passed away.  She did not want to put such a heavy burden on him, she had explained, but she did not know who else she could turn to.  They had spent much of the evening sipping tea in his family room and speaking very little; there was not much to say in such circumstances, after all.  He recalled feeling utterly useless, sitting across from the grieving, grandmotherly woman and aching for her with every frown or tear that marked her face.  “I need to save her,” he remembered thinking.  “If only I could save her from this pain.” But there was not a particular brand of tea, nor a magic word, nor any known gesture of man that could bring her the healing she required.  Not even time could heal this wound, not completely; in her heart, she would always be tied to the man she had married.  Renardo’s eyes traced random lines in the broken sidewalk as he thought that, perhaps, Corinne felt the same way about her husband.

White Fox--Chapter 4, Part 2

This is a short but poignant snippet of my latest novel, White Fox, which continues chapter four.

Renardo frowned.  He looked away from the mounts and grabbed a blue leash hanging from a nail in the wall.  The moment Sancho saw the leash, he barked and began to run laps around the front yard.  Renardo laughed at him and patted his thighs, and Sancho instantly dashed over to him.  After some struggle of hooking the leash onto the joyful dog’s collar, they left the property together and took a northwestern route down D Street.  Renardo purposely took his time, savoring the crisp air and time away from his mournful home.  Trees lined the sidewalks, their trunks dwarfed many times over by their lengthy branches which, loaded with the colors of autumn, extended yards above the road in the rough shape of an arch.  Houses in this part of Sacramento generally lacked driveways, so cars were parked in gutters in the most compact manner possible, almost as cluttered as (and far less beautiful than) the leaves dotting the street.  There were no voices to be heard at this time, but the eternal din of racing vehicles in the busy city reached Renardo’s ears.

Before long, the road curved southwest.  Sancho was insistent on sniffing every pole, mailbox, fire hydrant, and arbitrary inanimate object that came across his path.  Renardo looked up, beyond the bountiful trees overshadowing the road, and gazed at the endless, cloudless sky above.  He closed his eyes for a moment, and his thoughts turned to his inevitable flight to Philadelphia.  After four days of mulling over the situation, he knew that the journey could only help his case; if he caught Professor Wiles at the opportune time, he could extract every morsel of information from him.  It had occurred to him that he could simply send an email regarding the intelligence; after all, his last trip to the university had ended favorably, and the professor had no cause to mistrust him.  However, if Wiles was, as he presumed, more tangled in Malvin’s plots than he had let on—and (unsettling as the idea was) aware that Renardo was probing into the crime lord’s activities—then he knew that an email would not suffice.  Fortunately, he had discovered earlier in the morning that the professor’s contact information was still listed in the university’s faculty directory.  Unless their website was outdated, his trip to Philadelphia would be fruitful.

The few days away from Nate (and, save Corinne, every other person on earth) had given him clarity of thought and renewed purpose.  He recalled sitting in his small but comfortable Texas cottage five years earlier, watching as breaking news unfolded before him on his poor excuse for a TV.  The news was focused on Sacramento, California.  Beginning at 8:00 a.m., a bank robbery took place every hour for thirteen hours.  After the fourth bank was robbed, law enforcement fanned out to other banks in the city and managed to prevent multiple robberies; however, for each prevented robbery, another occurred elsewhere.  Furthermore, though the bank robberies received the greatest publicity, several other break-ins and murders arose in many of the city’s upscale homes.  Not a single common thread was discovered in the items stolen from these houses, and the victims of homicide were seemingly targeted at random.  Tears surfaced in Renardo’s eyes as he remembered a reporter standing some yards before a crime scene, explaining the situation at hand, when two officers guided a young child from the house to the sidewalk.  Her face was not visible, but she walked with a labored gait, and her body was hunched over as one in great emotional distress.  The scene had rent his heart, and his pain was exacerbated when he later discovered that seven children had lost at least one parent that day.

Malvin had arranged and instigated these crimes, but to this day, Renardo still did not know his motive.  He shook his head and muttered to himself, staring blankly at the road ahead of him.  As long as this crime lord was loose, there was always the possibility that Sacramento would one day face greater danger.

“I have to stop him, Sancho,” Renardo mumbled to his dog, who remained unresponsive.  “I have no choice in the matter.  He needs to be stopped, and soon.”

A Creative Response to Dante's Inferno

As an English major, I generally do not have a problem with works that are difficult to dissect.  However, even the most analytical reader will eventually grow weary of obscure passages and themes.  After reading the "Inferno" portion of Dante's The Divine Comedy, I decided I would respond creatively to a notorious passage--from Virgil's perspective.  This passage, copied from http://www.poetryintranslation.com, is detailed below:

Each one was tearing at her breast with her claws, beating with her hands, and crying out so loudly, that I pressed close to the poet, out of fear. ‘Let Medusa come,’ they all said, looking down on us, ‘so that we can turn him to stone: we did not fully revenge Theseus’s attack.’

      ‘Turn your back.’ said the Master, and he himself turned me round. ‘Keep your eyes closed, since there will be no return upwards, if she were to show herself, and you were to see her.’ Not leaving it to me, he covered them, also, with his own hands.

      O you, who have clear minds, take note of the meaning that conceals itself under the veil of clouded verse!

Here is my response to the passage:

Dear Dante the poet,

            My blessed ward, your God has granted me an unearned and brief opportunity to pen to you some fine words of admonishment and explication.  Minós made a rather random visit to the circle of the Virtuous Pagans yesterday, carrying a message from the Lord Himself: in your great work, which you label The Divine Comedy, there is an ambiguous scene in which I cover your eyes, so that you do not stare at Medusa and turn to stone.  With hazy, unclear words, you alert the reader that you have written something profound, and that is now his job to pull your text apart and glean from it your deep meaning.  My friend, this is far too difficult to comprehend as it is, and I highly suggest that you either rewrite the entire scene, or at least add some key words that will make it something that does not take hours to understand.  I do believe that every truth should be worked for, should be sought amidst layers of untruth through reasoning; but what you have here is a sparse collection of philosophical words, linked in such an obscure way that even the most astute scholar hundreds of years from now will have no simple time grasping the meaning of your verses.

I venture to say that you may not fully understand the implications of my action yourself, Dante; for whereas in other places you explain the reason for which you write something, in the currently addressed section you make the reader as blind as you were by my hands.  Here is what I had hoped to accomplish through my act.  Years from now, well-learned scholars will study your comedy and assign my character the role of human reason.  So, they will explicate the scene in which I cover your eyes thus: human reason blinds a man from looking upon something that will “turn him to stone.”  This is a good interpretation, for while “being blind” is generally seen as something negative, here it is a positive experience.  You may ask, “How can this in any way be a positive experience? Why would human reason blind someone?” The answer can be found by identifying the Christian idea of a hardened heart, which has its roots in the famous tale of Pharaoh and Moses.  No matter how many times Pharaoh witnessed the hand of God in his life, he hardened his own heart, and God also hardened his heart.  In other words, Pharaoh had a heart of stone.

Faith is a grounded, unshakeable belief in something, even if there is not enough hard evidence to prove that it is true.  Faith can be exercised by a person, and this belief will dispel a hardened heart.  Had Pharaoh had faith, his end would not have come in that manner that it did.  But having faith is not the argument of the passage in your comedy of which I speak; using human reason to avoid blindness and petrification is the theme.  Faith alone is not the only road one may take to believe in God initially; in fact, at times, some people follow a trail of logic and reason before discovering that there must be a God.  And so, here is the explication of your scene, using the ideas I have mentioned above.  Human reason covered your eyes when Medusa was near, so that you would not turn to stone.  Reason did not trust you to look upon her with the weak eyes of your flesh, for he knew that you would not understand.  For application in the world, this means that reason can actually be used, like faith, to avoid a hardened heart, to avoid turning to stone.  Using reason to shield one from a fleshly, illogical explanation of things will help the man of reason enjoy a soft, receptive heart.  But he who decides to look upon the world without faith and reason will have his heart hardened.  He will say to himself, “The stars, the trees, the sun, the animals, and man are not enough evidence to conclude that there is a God.” He is an illogical man, one who is not using logic to draw an accurate conclusion.  He trusts in his own weak understanding.  If only he were blind, as Oedipus was; then he would see!

This is what I, and likely God through me, desired to reveal to readers throughout the ages; but instead of making it clear, so that the common man can use it for edification, you have hidden the truth in a web of difficult words and phrases.  I now implore you to elucidate the passage of topic, for I believe that it is the will of God.  Of course, it is quite difficult to trust in a messenger who directs people to their eternal torment on a daily basis; perhaps he has an agenda of his own.  But altering some of the words and phrases in your passage, in a way that will clarify the deep meaning to the everyday reader, cannot damage your story.  Rather, it will edify others and make your comedy more accessible.  I do not argue that you should require absolutely no work on the reader’s part, for I find it brilliant that, as I have covered your eyes in the passage, the reader must uncover your meaning.  All I encourage you to do, my friend, with whom I have encountered various adventures, is make this essential part of your story somewhat clearer, so that any man may pick it up, and recognize that reason will bring him to the meaning behind your strange verses.

May your pen ever trail the ink of imagination,

                                                                           Virgil

White Fox--Chapter 4, Part 1

The story of Renardo continues in my novel, White Fox.  Enjoy!

Chapter 4

                                               Apologies

The following day, he sat on bench located on his front porch and peered out between two columns bearing the ceiling over his head.  People did not often walk the streets in this part of town, especially with the air so frigid.  And if he did manage to see some pedestrian beyond his fortress of property, he would not greet this person; his mood was far to gloomy to permit small talk.  He was presently dressed in a black, bloated jacket and dark grey sweats, effectively blending in with the dull tones of his house.  Little light reached him, blotted out by the leaves that were loath to fall from his yard’s ancient oak trees.  He sat deep in thought.  In fact, he forgot that he was well into a game of fetch with Sancho half the time.  The small dog would climb up the stair to the porch, drop the saliva-riddled tennis ball at his master’s feet, nearly fall over with excitement at the prospect of the ball being thrown soon, and then vanish from sight into the unmowed grass once it left Renardo’s hands.  But even amidst the fun and hilarity of such a game, Renardo felt alone.

After some time, he pried himself from the bench and attempted to get more actively involved in the sport.  At times he would sprint through the grass with the ball in hand, keeping it just out of Sancho’s reach as the dog bounced up like a kangaroo; at other times, he would throw the ball to the other side of the yard and then hide behind a tree.  Sancho would not be so easily duped.  He always returned to his master, prepared for the next round.  Renardo eventually grew weary of playing and again took his seat on the bench.  The dog came to him and dropped the ball at his feet, only to be disappointed by the young man’s nonchalance; he then began to wander about the property as Renardo cradled his head in his hands and stared at nothing in particular.  He released a long sigh.

“Sancho, why are women so difficult?” he asked.  “And why are all the good ones taken?”

The dog said nothing.  His ears perked up at his name, but he continued to sniff around and urinate in arbitrary areas when he realized that his master was not calling upon him for anything he considered fun.  Renardo looked at the empty spot on the bench beside him.  He shook his head as a pang of deep grief entered his heart.  Perhaps Nate would come by today.  Better yet, maybe Corinne would walk by his front yard, greet him, and tell him that she had changed her mind about the coffee.  He averted his attention from the bench and looked toward the black gate ahead of him.  Amusingly, Sancho pawed at the gate, looked at his master with a longing gaze, and spun in eager circles.  He repeated this for about a minute, until Renardo finally smiled and rose to his feet.

“You want to go for a walk, is that right, boy?”

The dog bristled with enthusiasm at the word “walk.”

“Yeah, a walk would be good for you.” Renardo turned to the front door and opened it.  “It’s not good for you to be cooped up all the time.  I’m sorry about that, boy.”

He walked into his house and passed by the family room and kitchen.  About ten feet from the spiraling staircase at the end of the first floor, a dining room opened up on the left.  He passed through the doorway and looked around.  An expansive, oval table stretched from one side of the room to the other, its deep brown wood emphasized by the pale light shining through the room’s two windows.  Two hutches filled with expensive china, matching the table in color, loomed on the room’s northern and eastern walls.  There were a few paintings scattered here and there, but the most prominent decorations were the mounted heads of various animals on the walls: deer, brown bears, wolves, and coyotes.  Renardo’s father was, for some time, a taxidermist, and quite a talented one.  He would often pay friends, or even total strangers, to hunt for specific game and bring him back a portion of their results.  Although taxidermy was not a living by any means, people paid huge sums of money for the apparently flawless quality of his work.  Most of his creations now served as ornamental background pieces in classy hotels and restaurants across California, but some of his later work was on display in Renardo’s dining room.  As the young man looked carefully at each mount, he recalled the time his father had given him a taxidermy piece as a gift.

“Hey Renardo,” the voice came to him, as clear as it had been many years ago.  “Hey, do you mind putting that on pause for a sec?”

“This game doesn’t really pause, Dad.” His eyes never left the television screen.  “They just kind of made it that way.  What’s up?”

“Well, I have a gift for you.  I mean, I don’t really think you’ll like it too much.  I know we don’t see eye to eye on…well, most things.  And I know you don’t like the idea of animals being killed to serve as decorations.  But I thought you might, I don’t know, find a spot for this somewhere.  Or at least keep it for memory’s sake.”

“What is it?” Sitting on the edge of his bed and holding his controller, he glanced toward the entrance of his room and noticed his father holding something white.

“It’s, um….Well, you know my friend Stan? His dad was running this taxidermy store over in San Francisco, but he passed away recently.  Now Stan loves hunting, but he doesn’t care much for taxidermy, so he didn’t continue his dad’s business.  They had a big closing sale over there, and I picked up a few things.  This right here is an arctic fox head, but according to Stan, it’s only a model—not the real thing.  And he said that if it was real, it was acquired a while before arctic foxes became endangered, as his father hadn’t been to Iceland for years.  Anyway, I thought it was fitting for you, with your name being what it is.”

Renardo finally wrenched his eyes from the screen and looked at the fox head.  It was hollowed out below the top portion of the snout, its eyes were a light grey color surrounded by black marble, its ears popped up from its tousled fur, and part of its coat reached down from the back of its head.  His father cleared his throat.  “Now obviously, it wasn’t really made for mounting or anything like that.  And I know you’re fifteen and all, so I don’t expect you to wear it like a hat, but—well, you could if you wanted to.”

“Yeah, cool, Dad,” Renardo said to him, trying to some degree to feign interest.  He continued to play his game.  “Um…thanks.”

His father smiled a warm, sad smile and set the fox head on his son’s bed.  Then, without another word, he left the room.

Empty

     This poem is not the most uplifting read, but it is genuine.  I love God with everything I have, and He has brought me a peace that I cannot even begin to explain.  However, just as King David had moments in some of his psalms in which he lifted up complaints to God, so I too lift up my pain in this poem.  At the time of this writing, I was facing numerous emotional struggles and I could not see an end to them.  One struggle in particular was envy.  I watched as those around me seemed to succeed at every turn; meanwhile, I was serving people and God as selflessly as possible, and only bad things were happening to me.  So I lifted up a prayer to God, and turned it into a poem.
     I try to write things that have a positive message; however, to limit myself only to these things would be a denial of my humanity.  Furthermore, it is in places of darkness that light shines the brightest.  And while the conclusion to this poem seems hopeless, I can assure you that God is more than capable of filling any emptiness within us.  Since the time of composing this work, He has brought me great strength and hope.  I pray that someone can find solace in these lines, knowing that they are not alone in having felt empty.
 
Empty,
I fill and provide--
Selfless hands serving the selfish--
And receive nothing.

I am here,
Seeing all and seen when desired--
Forgotten in the worst of times,
Obscure in the best.

Blessings fall
Like rain on casual spectators
As I strive to live,
But live in strife.

I am poured out,
My contents a constant provision
While all provision eludes me
And leaves me
Empty.