Swaddled Ontological Balderdash

Swaddled Ontological Balderdash

How might I wrap these dull and washed-out philological rantings around the depth of my affections for thee?
To make them understand that which no language has ever had the power to convey.
We mourn for Gaius Catullus who himself ached to form expressions of a pain so deep that scars upon the heart could offer brief relief.
This is not love for love is bounded within the realms of possibility, limited by the acts of life and death, shrouded in words so shallow they no longer hold sway.
Love is but the superficial meanderings of a tax bracket.

How might I wrap my weak and foolish heart around the lengths that I would go to hold thee in my arms and sleep?
To set mine heart to thine was never a choice I made but decided by another who now ignores my plight.
The nine of tails upon the soul whispers the song of old, long told and set among the sheep who baa and whine and throw themselves upon the trough to drown.
This is not passion for passion is bounded by sex and sweat, limited by the borders of time and space, crushed beneath the weight of its own summit.
Passion is but the superficial ejaculations within a limp sheath.
 
How might I wrap the submissive impotence of this fickle matrix around the transcendent comfort I find in thee?
Thou liveth beneath my skin were only the sea of tears resides.
The chakra-wrenching electricity that rips me from my bed, reminds me that neither sleep nor death can ever curtail or rescue me from this divine harbinger of the everafter fixed by thee and me.
This is not human for humanity is bounded by its ephemeral temporality, limited by the evanescent breath it buries, destroyed by the slip of one utterance passing teeth.
Humanity is but the superficial dust upon a freshly washed shelf.
 
How might I wrap thine apperception around the veracity that thine eyes outshine the lies that have become the umbilicus of us?
Thou hast never been unforgiven for purest clemency gorges my cruel and stony heart.
Thou art mine heart, mine soul and the empyreal essence of my very being within the sacrosanct synthesis of the Paraclete’s elusive ubiety.
This is not spiritual for spirit is bounded by the soul of one mere mortal, limited by the feeble reflections trapped therein, lost below the waves of sinful pride.
Spirit is but the superficial spark of a damp matchstick.
 
How might I wrap our smarting homogenous noumenon around the indivisibility of our infinitive solitary self?
Thou art me and I am thee and never the twain disjoined.
The abiding Pneuma did never bind thee and me for as a minter forges a coin, we emanate from the same vibrating genesis.
This is not duality for duality is bounded by the distinct and separate two, limited by the cringing petty plebs, annihilated by the stingy narrow egos.
Duality is but the superficial mockery of Laurel and Hardy.
 
How might I wrap the amaranthine eternity of our unceasing estrangement around our belted, blinded discord?
Will doth never return to me?
It is not required to understand, but to accept it as a fact of life, that we are unchanged by the passage of time, and will always remain the same being we have always been together.
This is not untrue for untruths are bounded by slick beguiling lies, limited by insidious shifting deceit, wrung by the broken bells of slander.
Untruth is but the superficial arms on a tyrannosaurus rex.
 
Warrior Princess