What is art, but the haggard man
Plucking his strings
On a weathered bench in Central Park

The wine drunk widow
Who dances slow
Behind her stained-glass window

An anxious teen
Who paints the canvas
The same color as her dreams

Could it be Ali
Who taught us the beauty of dancing like the butterfly
And stinging like the bee

Is it art if you write your pain
And sell it free
So that another may capture peace and escape the rain

The Colossus of Rhodes
The single mother working two jobs
So you may have a hot meal waiting for you at home

That is art
This; well this is words
Written somewhere between the crown of my head
And the depth of my heart