Poem — Inside the mind of Hieronymous Bosch
A pernicious petrifying choir of perished souls
from the depths of Hell the lonely wanderer calls.
With words long dead and whispers of the unspoken,
truth is laid to rest and the deceivers are forever awoken.
With the cunning Luciferian tyranny of the rational mind
one is bound to slave away to one’s own devils in kind.
Wishes, desires, raging sensual fires — all enslaved to one,
the king upon a throne of death with a burning black crown.
Toiling away for ages with no clear end in sight,
with a bent back against the devil’s inhuman might,
one wishes to be rid of this mortal coil shattered and trembling,
no longer truly human, merely in form and shape resembling.
Thousands of trembling tattered voices crying in vain,
an orchestra of undying desire, grief, terror and pain,
the light of day they have long forgotten,
their voices twisted, their words misbegotten.
Tales of days of yore become a shrieking wail,
their minds have long ago slipped beyond the veil.
With vast knowledge and a towering imagination,
there comes a time of near-infinite frustration
when the mind is overflowing like a dam near breaking
with images, ideas, stories and characters all ripe for the taking,
yet with words on pages failing to describe this plenty,
this well where both the eternal and contemporary gently
twist into each other and outside of time and space,
with magnificent violence and heavenly grace.
It is where Hell and Heaven are both wrapped in unity,
where the soul and matter delve beyond the wall of obscurity.
A place of no particulars and no abstractions,
where frustration melts into satisfaction,
where pain is knowledge and love is grief,
where even the devils are unwilling to deceive.
Imagination flows like a river outside of what is known,
where nothing truly dies and countless ideas have flown.
Will you emerge from the depths renewed and fresh
or will you feverishly cling to the world of matter and flesh?