The Inventor

I.        The moonlit windowpane
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 by creation.
Change – Purpose – Hope

A world beyond;
A realm of mysteries;
A land of possibilities:


Mountains stand distinct
With each definitive stroke;
Forests form sporadically
From within an endless
Scrawl of scribbles;
Mist settles discreetly
On a blurred lineage
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

The morning speaks like a child
Recalling a dream;
The afternoon grows like a boy
Exploring the unknown;
The evening matures like a man
Chasing after the sunset;
The night ages like a poet
Searching for the constellations.

II.       Pioneers are the truest of architects
And map makers the greatest of builders.
By them the blueprints of
The world are laid before us
And what was not becomes what is.

Most prominent, among these
Innovative minds, is the dreamer,
For he navigates the world
Not with parchment or pen,
But with vision and thought;
He builds kingdoms
Not with timber or stone,
But with imaginative realities;
His trails are blazed
With an unforeseen knowledge
That the waking world
Could never understand.

He has purposed in his mind
To create more than he can imagine.
No boundaries can hold him;
No limitations can bind him.
He is an inventor
The essence of ‘The Creator’
Surges through his veins;Pulsates from his lungs;
And permeates his being.
His heart beats to
A peculiar rhythm
Patterning the cadence
Of a song that has been
Sung from the very beginning.

Rapidly, beneath the gaze of
The waning moon, his eyes
Construct a boundless world.
All that he is, and
All that he longs for,
Is woven through its
Colored tapestry, with
Intention and purpose.

In his mind, he contours
Its surface, and traces its
Ridges. He knows it well,
For he has dreamt of it since
His boyhood: A world where
All creations are possible and
All possibilities are shared.

© Jeremiah Dowling 2012


About Jeremiah Dowling

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

2 responses to “The Inventor”

  1. Mark Zellner says :

    “The morning speaks like a child
    Recalling a dream;
    The afternoon grows like a boy
    Exploring the unknown;
    The evening matures like a man
    Chasing after the sunset”

    Best stanza in the whole piece. Love these lines. You do really great poetry man, still remember the piece you did about leaves on a tree in autumn several years ago. Love the theme of this piece too, what poet doesn’t enjoy the topic of inspiration itself? Reminds me of some pieces I’ve done.

    • thestorymovement says :

      Thanks man, I really love that stanza too! Especially cause it actually grows in syllables as it talks of the day growing, but yeah I love how this poem came out!

      And yes!! I remember that leaf poem, I think of it often, I should repost it on here some time!

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