On the core of my catastrophe

Here art we again - such defiance in the visage of time - art we here again my dear, and so wonder I fathoming how long it must have been. Beneath this cerulean azure above, clobbering me art some rushed kisses of a zephyr that blows from somewhere in between; I pace back and forth with cacophonous a melody my company, and betwixt the plethora of cobwebs lies my mind still so empty. Very swiftly art those kisses carried past my skin that remains intact the squalor on it. Do I look dirty my love? I do, don't I? But beyond all lies will that be never known, will I not entreat but demand - must not thee lie. The breeze is quiet now, or has it been quelled somehow? So oft am I aware of palms on my lips that of speech of the smallest syllable am I unaware. This esplanade of my consideration, ah! this walk I overtly admire otherwise, indeed, is that ramble so insipid with futility, and question I everything in my sight. Tell me, do I know my own heart? Avert I my heart, I overlook and see past the ledge that juxtaposes me within feet I know I can measure, oh! I so wish to measure. Will I let thee down if conceded I with this air that calls my name? But 'twas no peace in the hours of sanity I lived. Thou desire my peace even in the firmament know we both can I not reach. There it is, yes, there spreads it all over beneath as overlook I. Shall I walk ahead? Too tired is my mind pondering and pondering with a thin line of vagueness chiseled eventually. Alas! am I in a dream? Has fatigue got hold of me now; must I tell you dear before am I vanquished by this air in my ambience - too tight is the clasp now that aches my body in sour pain. Am I not pale yet? 

The wind now caresses my hair, one masseur is it. 

Strange how its gradation into something thinner and thinner makes it all the very thicker and thicker for me. I am good - with the truth spilled, oh my love I am good. I am, am I not? My paramour! has it been a time of such dearth of thy concern for me that have I come to behold nothingness in hope - ah! 'twas such power, indeed, such power was thine that made me grope darkness in light. Admit I - blind am I. How much can thou see?