"The man who arrives at the doors of artistic creation with none of the madness of the Muses, would be convinced that technical ability alone was enough to make an artist . . . what that man creates by means of reason will pale before the art of inspired beings." --Plato

I came to the Well of Madness;
An old man showed me there.
His robes were sable, blackest night
Of silver was his hair.

A wind like ghostly breath there danced,
A stream ran swift nearby,
The Sun and Moon shone coupled down
From a star-sprinkled sky.

The finest mist hung in the air:
The thinnest shroud, a wedding veil,
And in the glade winked fireflies
Betwixt corpse-candles soft and pale.

Mirrored dew lay on the grass,
Like diamonds’ crystal tears;
That place was spun of gossamer
And yet unchanged by years.

The old man pointed at the Well
And this he spoke to me:
“One sip from Her means shortened life
But also immortality.

“I once led here a little boy:
A pianist, a prodigy.
Six and thirty years he lived –
But his music for eternity.

“And hence a youth of Stratford came,
Fair words his greatest joy.
The Bard, they call him now, in awe
Of the great verse he did employ.

“She let a blind man write his poems
She helped a deaf man to compose
And gave the artists wondrous dreams
Because of what they chose.

“For this place is home to all
Who art inspire: Calliope,
Her sisters eight, fair Memnosyne,
The Gratiae, the Leanan Sidhe.

“And if you should accept Her, She
Will send to you one like to these.
Your mind shall never cease to soar;
The art shall flow with greatest ease.

“Now, my child, I’ve told you all.
The time has come to make your choice.
Take but a sip from Her untold depths,
And the Universe shall hear your voice.”

And as I listened to him speak,
I thought I heard amidst the trees
An epic poem, a symphony
Famed and beloved, ‘pon the breeze.

I spoke no word but nodded thrice
And looked back not – the choice was made.
He took my hand and bade me forth
And I approached Her, unafraid.

Behind me stood the legend-ghosts –
Da Vinci, Mozart, Homer, Poe,
Shakespeare, Dali, Beethoven –
Whom the stars shall forever know.

I dipped a ewer shining down
Then raised it high and drank Her deep.
The taste, like rain, was bittersweet
And I fell into mystic sleep.

And O! the wondrous things I dreamed!
The colors danced, the trumpets rang,
The masks flew off, the bonds were cut,
And all the minstrels screamed and sang.

Lightning struck me, the sweetest kiss;
I laughed – the storm was mine!
I harnessed thunder, rode it home,
Saw planets die and stars align.

At last I woke, but then, behold!
The dreams continued yet;
The memories stayed clear as glass
And naught could I forget.

And then there was beside me, one
With wisdom in his eyes.
He said, “She sent me here for you;
I’ll sing you to the skies.”

My pen I took, and from it came
My heart’s unspoken words;
Music came like goblins’ song,
The notes flew forth like birds.

And thus I sit, his whisperings
Unceasing in my ear,
Not having time to create all
I wish, my only fear.

For madness comes with brilliance
As night comes ere the dawn,
I must create, or surely die –
The dreams go ever on.