The artist set up his palette with paint;
all the rainbow’s colors were there;
dabbing his brush, showing little restraint;
sending colors descending everywhere.
But more than paint; He also sent sound;
a crescendoing, thundering roar;
everywhere you could see; all around;
with the finesse of a musical score.
From within, it seemed colors did scatter;
for the illusion was still incomplete;
but the energy resolved itself into matter;
and the universe coalesced by the heat.
No one could see the artist or supplies;
for he was in the garden of thought;
nor could they explain how he could devise;
his creation that became what it ought.
His creation came downward projected;
like an unending thunderstorm;
in spite of it all, he kept us protected;
to our needs this world did conform.
His palette still lay in the garden of creation;
with his rainbow as a sign of what was to be;
for no man living has the imagination;
to believe from that palette came both you and me.
For how could his palette contain all things;
the entirety of all his thought?
It’s a metaphor for what consciousness brings
depicting all that the great Artist wrought.