The Curators

My friends 

Are the curators 

Of my soul 

They carefully 

Intertwine strings 

In the tapestries 

Of our encounters 

With a whisper of a brush 

Flush against the canvas 

They can make my soul soar 

Bright with the colors 

Of laughter and joy 

Interlaced with fine gold thread 

This is what good memories are 

made of 

The bells, strings, and horns 

Make a symphony of sound 

It is a soundtrack to my life 

Their words rise and fall 

With emotion carefully selected 

Delicately deliberated 

And subtly strewn throughout 

My friends 

Are the curators 

Of my soul 

They stroll the galleries 

Of my very being 

Carefully appraising 

All that they see 

They turn things over 

Delicate with my feelings 

Testing their fragility 

Like discovering treasure 

When grime needs to be chipped away

They show no mercy 

And I shine all the brighter because 

of it 

Though they may look 

Upon my cracks and scrapes 

My murals and sculptures 

And not understand 

They stand as reverent witnesses 

They patiently await 

To view the next artifact 

Contribute to the new exhibition 

And eagerly peak into 

The veiled display 

Biding their time 

Before I let them 

Cut the ribbon 

Open the curtain 

And see into my depths 

My friends are the curators 

Of their lives and mine 

I stand in awe 

Of the people they are 

And what they have yet to display 

My friends 

Are the curators 

Of my soul 

And I wouldn’t have it 

Any other way

About the Author

Erica Bentley is a senior English major who will be graduating this May. She is inspired by the world around her and enjoys writing about various perspectives on pleasure, pain, and other reactions. Erica hopes to pursue a career in Publishing and/or art world soon.