The Norms of Insanity

What, exactly, is insanity?
--or more importantly, the essence of it,
Which we all fight to fend off,
Protecting our minds from mystical whimsy.  
If the sun rose in the high of night
And the moon crowned the golden noon,
Would that be insanity? If I said
That my soul was black as a snowy flake
And as pure as a raven's blackened wing,
Would I be insane?  If the world spun west-to-east
And not east-to-west, and the birds perched in trees
Rooted to the sky and flew through a dense green space—
What would become insanity?  The stately line,
The order of time, the sun chasing the moon—
--the sense of status, the authority of power—
The perfection of red satin petals counterbalanced
On a prickly green stem of thorns?  Would its petals bear
A bloodied crown of spines, its stem cloaked
in satin gauze?  If this world was one of insanity,
would I be the one writing this poem?
Or would the poem be writing me?