I"m sitting here now with my hands

holding my face

because I feel so much of this nothing-hollowed emptiness

and I know not what I ought to do.

I use my hands to work;

I know they can wield the axe

but can they take this thing out of me,

can they fill me?

Right now, I'm holding my face with my hands.

Seeking an answer,

a solution to my invisible, burdensome

dilemma of life

and I find nothing in my hands.

Today they worked,

wielded that instrument which tears

into life ancient and wizened

so that it may be stacked

and later burned for warmth.

Lives forgotten,

countless years erased in ashes;

at least my hands can keep me warm;

at least I am warm.