An underdeveloped poem that fails to express what I mean

Oh! it is all the same! The same old story,
In the lines of every face,
In the words of every prophet;
The same story
Rushing in the veins of things that grow,
Howling through the dust of wasted places.
It is there, poised between your lips
And trembling here in this unweildy heart -
The same terrible treasure.
Layer after layer we have peeled back
Exposing tender skin to shiver in the sun
And each depth is a little paler than the last
Shining with more light and less substance
Until light itself is spread so thin
That it begins to lose itself.
A shape is emerging
A sort of a whisper of a shape
Lying so still, so still and so bare
And I cannot distinguish my love from my fear
Of the form that it is taking -
This emptiness
This pure distillation of ghastly, wondrous silence
This having nothing to do but fall backwards,
Nothing to be but what is
This maddening joy
Of having nothing new to say.

All, all is one.