to cover over, to conceal

our existence is a parody of normality
wherein the doctors
rein in sibylline prescience,
our foresight to see
burning cities and flocks of ravenous crows,
circling, circling, hungry for the death
(cloaked in sunlight's unparalleled arabesque)
which has already begun to pass.
they do not believe us—

(those two-cent smiles plastered on stone faces,
as if they are dealing with dolorous idiots
and not those gifted with perception
as we are, as we have been)
when we tell them of this impending, stirring doom,
the apocalypse of crumbling universes
and brilliant sanguine suns.
they patronize with "healer's touches",
voices softly reassuring (mocking),
murmuring self-absorbability.

it is an asylum for the mad artisans-
the moonstruck prodigies, forgotten virtuosos
of dripping-ink quills,
of scales and brushes-
in which we are the only sensible entities.
the sapient ones, they claim
we are non compos mentis (in its highest superlative,
how ridiculous, to contrive such extremes),
but are we not homo sapiens sapiens
just as they are? only our world, it is that
of truth's darker side.

yet this mortal world,
its verisimilar quantities and natures,
are clear for all to see;
i am not the only one who grieves
for their willful blindness.
there is naught left for us to do—
we have given our warnings,
the epistles which the Guardians have instructed
us to deliver. it is no fault of ours
that man's shadow has eclipsed his face.