Love this. This is very similar to one of my poems. The surreal fiber is so real to me. It is what I call poetical reality. The platonic weave:
"Words would disappear,
only meaning will be left."
gives it a vivid poetic sensibility. The one that is out of reach in 'sensible reality.'

"The interval ceases to be" is profound reveals the arbitrary aspect of space. Though I am confused in the use of 'wasness'
Once more it is a platonic theme that death is kind of relief for the "lost childe whose burden was his taste." This works either way, whether if the taste itself is unbearable, or if regardless of being unbearable or pleasant, still, in itself, is a burden.

And perhaps the death is the morning star, a wake up in " The City of Utopia"