Faces

empty hole,
hollow mold,
standing bold,
with no substance to behold.

years gone by
with other molds filled inside
yet one is empty, as it lies

to itself, and those around,
about how it is empty now,
always has been, never changed
an identity to itself is estranged.

did it ever start to fill
or was the material never there.
no substance to craft,
a solid draft,
of what this mold was meant to be.

the mold does change,
to match the frame,
of the world around,
to make other molds proud

to this day,
it does stay,
empty and ashamed.

it would seem,
all time was wasted,
just to become,
the mold of many faces