The Artist of Life

Imagine an artist whose art comes to life…

His paintings leap from their canvasses,

            his sculptures break free and move,

His storied characters rise from their pages,

            his poetry blossoms and breathes.

Whatever he creates takes shape,

            their lungs filling up with air.

Whatever he envisions comes to be,

            for life flows from his giving hands.

Now, imagine his creations in the world

            where they live and they interact.

Imagine they’re given free will,

            granted freedom upon the earth.

Their environment is sublime,

            their surroundings are so pristine.

They commune together here, at peace

            with each other and their creator.

Next, imagine that they rebel,

            they reject their giver of life.

Chaos, anguish, and ire ensue,

            pain and hate take root.

What once was a place of harmony

            has been plagued and riddled by evil.

The creations are razing their canvas to the ground,

            their creator just watches them go…

There are wells of tears in his eyes

            and his heart is beyond broken.

His paintings have discolored,

            his sculptures have all contorted.

His characters have been manipulated,

            his poetry has turned against him.

All that he’s created has changed,

            warped by the evil in their hearts.

All that he had dreamed and envisioned

            has been lost, ruined, undone.

He gave of himself in their creation,

            but his love was not returned to him.

Now, imagine that we are his paintings,

            know that we are his sculptures.

Understand that we are his characters,

            believe that we are his poetry.

His life still flows through our veins,

            his breath still breathes in our lungs.

His love still beats in our hearts,

            and his touch is still within reach.

His longing stands before us,

            his arms are open wide.

His embrace will reshape and remold us

            into what he dreamed we would be.

Now, imagine he’s painting our path,

            know that he’s sculpting our souls.

Understand he’s the author of our lives,

            and believe our poetry is still being penned…