Art,
Is a sheer, filmy thing,
And a fleeting mist,
Its understanding is uncatchable,
Like a cloud rolling in the sky,
Is it a fancy,
A snapshot,
A product of hard work,
Or a sudden breath of beauty,
From a mouth opened out of habit?
Can we rightly dub,
A simple decoration,
With the same three letters,
That must define,
That which arouses to a screaming pitch,
Emotions?
Is it the possible response,
To an object,
That enables it to be named,
Art?
A wondrous thing,
That forms words out of colors,
And colors out of words,
And music out of smells,
And music into movement,
And enables one to feel again,
And understand what had not yet been grasped?
I propose, the word may be too broadly used,
But I am clueless,
As to where to draw the line.
One cannot draw it at physical response,
For the wisest man cannot separate the mind, soul, or body,
Into useful parts,
Nor can one draw it at ugliness,
For unless it is truly a cruelty,
Some person shall maintain it is fine.