The Orphan Form

On dusty walls, a painting removed,
leaves a clear silence, an unveiled void.
No living color now, but an untouched edge,
the skin intact where time has not scratched.

It is a shell without pearl, a quenched matrix,
a precise negative that reveals the absence.
Not memory, but proof it was substance,
a smooth scar, barely latent.

The orphan form, a whisper at the border,
keeps weight and light, a long state.
Mute witness of an ended disappearance,
time defended it and then revealed it.