What is art?

Fringe concepts of creativity?

Is it only the reforging of what once was expressed? A retelling of an old myth with new adornments in a viewpoint foreign to unacquainted experience?

Some say it is an expression. A product of skill, imagination, and emotional release.

A story forged in a kaleidoscope of senses. Branching over a myriad of mediums, professions, and inventions.

An anthropomorphized anamorphosis dream, brought to life, shared, or kept secret. A contagion of inspiration. An injection of passionate release. The bleeding of pain, devotion, heartache, and ardor.

What is art but a subtle kiss upon the lips of what could be. A private affair that the world can experience from the soul of one brave enough to shine. Or deprived with wrath, lashed upon a torturous darkness. Writhing and withering in a beauty few can understand.

It can be a connection to a human so personal, that the skin of reality horripilates with fervor.

Spoken cries in a canyon that we are the art made from the stars. Billions of luminescent pinpricks in the night, long since gone. But reaching to us through time in an echo of wonder.

Just a flutterby thought that touches air wisps. To make a thunder hope for a sunrise storm.

This is what art could be.