Misery that it is

There is ever so much dread to broach the subject. Many a page lie torn, many a line obscured. Waiting to hear through my wavering lips, a waste thought; when even my thoughts dare not think about that. But the common rest it defined. Frailer the mind, feebler the effort, further the comprehension. In fashion their meaning lie, whatever flavour the vogue breeze brings in. I do not profess a prowess, but acquainted not vicariously, I feel safe to say, I understand that I do not understand it. And what little I gained is thus; If it were what is essence be, that is, eternal, it cannot be with reason. Its essence, thus, then also be, unreasonable. For if you reason, reason for the better is possible. And possibility of this in existence makes love loose its essence of eternity.