Is art the brush across the canvas,
Or the pen across paper, the person
Who enacts and enthralls a crowd?
Is it the pounding heart, the moving limbs
Assembling each piece in sequence, Or
Perhaps the minds that shape each facet?
I don’t know much of art, or of love, or
The many wonders of the vast world,
But I know my heart yearns for creation
Even as worlds crumble all around