Body of Art

Art is to man,

As the paintbrush is to the painter.

Some will claim

That art is beauty.

That art must represent the good,

The laughter, the soft repose.

But art is naught but

The melded shadows of the maker, 

The sculptor, the writer. 

Art is a creation

Known only to the creator

In the deep recesses of his being.

There lies true beauty,

In the unknown places of thought

And art is the bridge

From the flighty dream to the tangible.

Is it not acceptable for art

To be more than beauty?

A multifaceted pièce de résistance.

One of agony

And breathless terror

And hopeless, aching romance.

Art is the visceral, remarkable work of us.

Art is humanity.

And humanity is one writhing,

naked body of art.