White Space Speaks

white space speaks,
tells what was left behind...
the hands unpainted on the walls
of caves, were there
and are no more...
when we are gone,
will there be a painted presence,
some design of our days
left for those who come
after; some ghostly outline
of the creator left,
stark and unforgettable,
signaling by emptiness
the fullness that once was?

our lives like vessels
built of clay or glass
or leather-bound
grow up around us
day by day...
our deeds and thoughts
congeal in some contour
and then we're gone,
the vessel bleak and dry...
what shape remains?
could someone ages hence look
and reconstruct
what filled it to the brim?