Half of a Poem: ‘The Inventor’

Today, I am going to do something different. Instead of taking time to try and create a post about something I’m not in the mood to write I’m going to share with you a half finished poem.

This is a poem I’ve been working on for years, but never seem to finish. For the past few weeks I’ve been revisiting it and adding onto it, and I really just wanted to share with you what I have so far, and share with you some re-time progress instead of half-hearted attempts to write something that people might read. Also, I hope to make a video of some sort out of this poem when I am done, by the by. Anyway, here it is: The Inventor (part 1):

‘The Inventor’

The moonlit window pane
Leaves the purest stain
On the edges of the bed
Where the dreamer lay his head
In a sea of wintry white
Combing back the edges of the night.

All solid shape and form
Fades to shades of black
Lingers in the darkness
And finds no passage back.
Broken blots of color
Blossom in the void,
Spark and sputter silently,
Turn and tangle quietly.

The Great Gap fills,
Like a flickering flame
Or a wandering thought,
With dancing images
And living shadows,
Cast against endless
Transparent horizons.

The birth of a dream
Is the seed of a world
Sprouting secretly from
The hollow space within.
It germinates beneath
And creates its surface;
It burrows deep below
And builds its life-giving soil.
Everything it is, creates
Everything it needs.

The dream breathes on its own.

A spark – Light
Points of reference
Hurled into existence.
Life and fullness falsified.
A dream – Transcendent thought.
Reality altered through creation.
Change – Purpose – Hope

A World beyond.
A Realm of mysteries.
A land of possibilities.

Uncharted Wilderness
Rises with Discovery:

Mountains stand distinct
With each definitive stroke;
Forests form sporadically
From within an endless
Scrawl of Scribbles;
Mist settles discreetly
On a blurred linage
Of precipices and summits;
Waves rush through splattered
Margins toward the
Advancing frontier.

Ink, drawn from the depths
Of subterranean
Caverns, seeps into
The recesses of a
World that sees itself
For the very first time.

© Jeremiah Dowling 2012

If you were to finish this poem what would you write about?

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About Jeremiah Dowling

I write poetry and take crazy pictures in an Orange Chair all over the United States while reading amazing books.

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