From The Pen Of An Existential Muralist Poem by Jesse Swedlund

The earth is the last painting this artist
Will stroke, with a tender flick of my wrist
She comes to life. Each day humanity
Strays further away; Christianity
Seeks to answer the vision of mankind,
All this I painted, yet still they are blind.
From where they came they seem never to know,
For what they came, I try daily to show.
I’ve made the picture form under the brush,
Colors form questions; form logic; form lush
Depictions of what I wish they would see;
All-knowing, yet the one who’s blind must be me.
Must I create, wonder, paint, to prove my existence
To myself with a Godly persistence?
I will, I say; I do, to my dismay,
And I paint the world on the seventh day.
And so the earth is my last painting. This
Artist will stroke the sky, wishing for bliss.