In an alternate universe

I have not quite reached my twenty•third rotation around a red sun
Insanity has never kissed my parched lips in recognition or twisted my tart tongue
I am not notorious; nor unknown to the one
Meant to meet me beneath this oak tree
When my skin is touched by fate or perhaps by a moon that hangs undone

I am caught in a whirlwind of shapes and shades
Reminiscent of a broken kaleidoscope on a grey day
Haphazardly they spin around me
Twirling crookedly beneath two tired feet
Each fragmented piece fighting for its own space
Beside me in this distorted reality

I am silently aware of the cool air as it tickles my sun-burnt cheeks
The howling wind an accurate comparison to my...