The whole world is wrong.
Wrong -
     defined by not being right,
     defined by people who know themselves better than I.

The whole world is at my fingertips.
My fingertips -
     wrought in rust,
     wrought in hues of iron butterfly wings,
     wrought in the language of dead, forgotten things.

The whole world is somewhere in the universe.
Somewhere in the universe -
     lost in the void of space,
     lost in the void of time taken to meet ourselves,
     lost in the void of where lost things look real,
     lost in the void of what could have been and what could be.

The whole world is wrong,
     wrong
          wrong.
The whole world is wrong,
And it is right,
     Wrong and right, full and empty,
     Timeless and running out of time.

The whole world is gone.
     It was never meant for me.