The Jealousy of the Empty Frame

I stand, a void, a hollow, silent plea, 

A perfect border, for what used to be. 

My polished edges yearn, my corners keen, 

To hold the substance of a vibrant scene. 

I am the Empty Frame, a silent ache, 

For purpose lost, for beauty I might take. 

I watch my brethren, on the nearby wall, 

Adorned with laughter, standing proud and tall.

They gleam with memories, of moments caught, 

Of painted landscapes, or of lessons taught. 

A child's first step, a sunset, burning bright, 

A wedding day, bathed in eternal light. 

Each filled companion, whispers of its worth, 

While I remain, a silent, barren earth. 

A pang of longing, sharp and cold it grows, 

For fleeting glory, that my purpose knows. 

To cradle beauty, to define a view, 

To frame the essence, of what's fresh and new. 

I feel their richness, hear their silent hum, 

And wonder if my moment, will ever come.

Perhaps my purpose lies beyond the scene, 

Not in the subject, but the space between. 

A definer of what was, and what could be, 

A silent promise, for eternity. 

A patient watcher, of the world outside, 

A canvas waiting, where new dreams can hide. 

My jealousy may linger, faint and low, 

But in this stillness, quiet truths I know. 

I am the boundary, where vision starts, 

A silent witness, to evolving hearts. 

And in this void, a power I embrace, 

To offer context, to a changing space.

- Khushi Kaul