Blind Artist

You were the blind artist...
You stained colour against a white frame,
But no one could see
What You
See...
They swirled around you while you were floating in a world of complete
Silence...
Screaming colours...
Silence...
You painted with what you thought was dignity.
It was only War against yourself.
Fly with your colours that never existed...
Forgotten...
Gone
Continuing to fly, you face a staircase
And it angers you so...
The steps are not green, and the rails are not blue...
The sky is not painted with the colours you choose...
Take a sip of your palette...
Drink tint to your liking
And drop your brush to the floor
It hits the ground with a scream
And everything turns RED.
Bloody fog...
And it is NOT what you covet...
Only SHE stands blockade to your masterpiece...
The babe; eyes of hazel and heart of gold; turns at the foot and steps upward...
And the fog rolls closer...
Warring dream against reality; 
The Chase is on.
You climb the spiral staircase, thinking you're sagacious.
The only thing you are is dizzy.
The only place you are getting yourself is lost.
Chasing a babe from the very womb, your irascibility breaks the dam, and water streams turn the skin ivory.
Your drunken words haunt Her, tormenting Her into a higher state of unconscious battle.
Vicious thrown words that dissipate into the smoke, you're forgetting...
Spinning one against the other, decending upward;
The deeper you swim, the more you lose...
The top of the spiral staircase only gave you a headache.
You stumble and feel something beneath your hands
Fall over the railing
And erupt into petals of night-time roses.
The fog is covered with stars that no longer emit light
Open your eyes...
You thought you saw Her...
Were you only chasing yourself...?
Where is the babe?
Not caring for the fear in Her heart
You turned Gold to Shale.
Drowning in streams of soot left from the babe
The black makes you faint...
And with that, you lean back, close your eyes, and tumble into the endless gray fog.
Your puzzles disassemble into a pile of failure.
The staircase collapses to onyx dust
And your mind falls deeper than the ground allows.
All that's left of your paintings is splatters of random colour, no longer vibrant.
Maybe they never were. 
After all, you were the blind artist.
Wake up...
The war has ended...
Who won?