The Scrimmage Void

They shift between grating noises and deafening silence.

Those who dug them are now tired and resting.

There are those who try to fill them with pebbles that disintegrate and drown.

You're prettier without them, I'm told.

But the hollows are not my mother's crimson stains that'll wash off in time.

They're not my father's briefcase that I can put down if too heavy.

They're not, unlike all of the above, metaphors.

Who wins a fight between a poem and a void?