The Curator

My soul is a house unfurnished,
Or that’s how it began.
I echoed within all who entered,
I was not a man.
From the visitors I accumulated
Knick-knacks and paintings —
A house is just a place for things,
Not laughter and sufferings.
The older I grew, the more I gathered,
Prizes I did not value.
Carrying them around, I found
I was in need of rescue.
I looked for answers, low and high,
But could only see so far.
So I started with in, then the out,
Till they were both on par.
I kept only the things of function,
Gave all else away,
Then beyond I gazed, and learned,
The outside held no sway.
I need no rescue, just some help,
Setting this house up well.
Not a place for things or knick-knacks,
A home for me to dwell.