[Poem] The Curator

 

In dusty shelves, a world untold,

Treasures gathered, young and old.

A porcelain doll, with chipped blue eyes,

Whispers secrets of lullabies.

 

A seashell sings of ocean's roar,

Carried home from a distant shore.

A rusted key, with purpose lost,

Holds a mystery at what it's cost.

 

Each trinket whispers, soft and low,

A story waiting to unfold, you know.

The curator smiles, with gentle hand,

These memories, they understand.

 

For collections hold a life within,

Echoes of laughter, whispers of sin.

A testament to time's gentle sway,

A story gathered, every single day.