The Scars on the Doorframe

The doorframe stands, a silent, weathered friend,
Its painted surface, etched with lines and marks.
Each scratch a story, from beginning to end,
A timeline carved, through sunlight and through darkness.

The faded pencil lines, a childhood's height,
A testament to growth, year after passing year,
The tiny dings, from furniture's hurried flight,
Each imperfection, holding something dear.

These are the scars of life, profoundly worn,
A silent witness to the ebb and flow,
Of joyful welcomes, on a summer morn,
And tearful partings, in the winter snow.

The chipped paint tells of laughter, loud and free,
The worn-down edge, of hands that often brushed,
A silent chronicle, for all to see,
Of hurried moments, and of secrets hushed.

It felt the pressure of a leaning head,
The gentle touch of fingers, soft and light,
The weight of burdens, silently unsaid,
And dreams that blossomed in the fading light.

More than mere wood, it's history's embrace,
A tangible record, steadfast, strong, and true,
Reflecting back the spirit of the place,
And all the lives that lovingly passed through.

This door frame, scarred, a silent, knowing guide,
Its marks a testament to time's embrace,
Holding the stories, deep within its side,
The living timeline of this cherished space.

- Khushi Kaul