The history of our ancestors have been painted on the walls of the earth/

Painted by war, painted by death, but hopefully these paintbrush strokes by God’s right hand may color life onto our canvass/

What is art, if not the most superlative expression of the mind’s eye/

An implicit and creative manifestation of one’s imagination/

So those dozens of lonely souls cry out to the night “don’t you dare break my Statue of David”/

Do not wash away my Sistine Chapel with these fountains of oil-based misfortunes, burning/

But isn’t art much more appreciated when observed not critiqued/

We’ve been sculpted by the divine and given a twin of each/

Twin ears, twin eyes, twin nostrils, but only one mouth that echoes so that we may use our good senses to appreciate more than we criticize/

Let us allow for an artistic world/

Because like Martin Luther King and many before he himself, I too have a dream/

I have a dream that one day politics will seize to be political and form into a social art that provides externalities for man and animal like/

I have a dream that one day social institutions of higher learning will seize to barricade creativity/

And as we bear arms we will bear minds full of ingenuity and benevolence/

I dream of the day when life is the only color/

The day when black and white weigh zero/

But what is a dream, if not an art we do not understand/

A subjective, and sometimes inadvertent, psychological thrust towards artistic realization/

We voice our minds to interpret what is written/

As literature interprets philosophy, philosophy interprets art, and art interprets all/

So as I put down my paint brush, seal my oils and retire my tools/

Let us all dream, observe, and appreciate/

For what is life, if not God’s unfinished art/