The Artist

A poetry submission by Michael Vichiola, BU class of 2025, Christian studies

Once upon a time, there was an artist who had a vision. He picked up his tools and began to unfold his creation. He painted the sun bright yellow, made the earth and the other planets, too, in the next moment he established day and night. But the artist wanted more within the picture, so he created the sky, as blue as can be, the water he left below.

Through day after day the artist continued to create. Picking up a brown pencil, the artist drew hills and mountains, all sorts of land to add to the scene, he added more to his scenery by adding vegetation and plants, coloring them a shiny green. He liked what he saw, as his mind continued to flow with ideas. But with the light he created, the artist wanted it to be equal, which is why he made the day and night.

But there was no life, so the artist wanted to change that. The pencils and brushes brought every living animal into the world, allowing them to reproduce as the artist designed it, hearing the little babies crying from up above the canvas. Then he wanted to see something or someone like himself, the last thing he could think of, so he drew a man to describe him as in his likeness. With what he saw as finally completed work, the artist stepped back and watched the art come to life. Suddenly black paint oozed out from the man’s chest, which was disobedience coming from the heart. This was supposed to be the best part of the work, man was supposed to be like him, but instead man wanted their own way, much to the artist’s dismay.

Then the artist became angry at the man for his resistance, so the artist drew out punishments for the man because of his first sin. He didn’t stay in this state for long, the artist had another plan in mind. Out came a new canvas, a fresh clean slate on which to paint. Amongst this he remembered his other art, he envisioned a savior, who would restore the black ooze of man and fill it with yellow, it’d represent salvation, man wouldn’t be completely lost.

So the artist continued to paint and draw, knowing the rest of the story was screaming to come out. One day, the painting saw new life, yellow paint streamed across. Giving thanks to the red, coming down the brown wooden cross.

A poetry submission by Michael Vichiola, BU class of 2025, Christian studies