The Primary Emptiness

What do I do with this insatiable grief
Gnawing at my heart as I begin each day?
How do I turn its attention from my flesh
And substitute something that stills its hunger?
I have fed it tears, and its tongue laps for more;
I have tasted the flesh of strange men, and it only writhes with desire;
I have sipped dark wine until my words are slurred senseless.
What is left?
Shall I write until my eyes are blind, my hands numb, and my soul emptied of sadness?
What will fill the primary emptiness?