The Blind Painter

The Blind Painter sits in a room of time

Shadow and nightmare fill his fluid mind

He creates unseen beauties and lies in a bath

Of emeralds and rubies won by his wrath

He walks down the halls of eternal strife

Tears stain the walls of his horrid life

His own gentle cry the whispering wind

Life floats by encased in a hymn

The Blind Painter lies alone in his bed

Shaping the hour with his shimmering head

He sketches humbly on a field of white

He crafts a medley of stars in sunlight

He layers around in waves of reality

Color and sound are his tapestry

He composes the struggle of alternate sight

His canvas, a dove of obsidian white

Blind with his dreams ambition in his head

The Blind Painter screams until he is dead

The dreams! The screams! The floating requiems

This is his last breath

This is simply .. death