Poorly formed confessions part 4

I

I miss you terribly.
I miss the excitement you bring as you enter into
the alleyways of dimmed lights.
I love the uncertain footsteps,
tinged with the pace of slight
anticipation, slight, but appealing.
Ungrounded in peaceless bridging,
like tense thread strung over Fates.
I love the spark of unclaimed, unspoken feeling,
your pauses , your silences,
enriching like dew-drenched hay, to stay the rotten beetle
of slant-eyed seeming.

Memories as dried fruits.
Life as syrups that cling to hoarse lips.
Groans stifled as ulcers are cut.
By steel of deathless truth.

II

The stars have bled
like prune eyed souls that with poor hands grasping
Strayed into narrow boroughs.
Splayed with the stench of truths
like overripe fruit that clung to trees like disease.
Dripping twisted grins like pressured slime
tracing the rivulets of sceptered cracks
in the streams of conscious cries.
The cheeks, the lips, the collapsing bones,
that weathered and hardened and reveried no more.
If peace could dream up paintbrushes,
and with a heavy heart, stake a claim and draw,
turn the cross beams of the heavens
into unspoken Jesuses and jigsaws
so would the nut and bolts of truth
collapse into music, like a crown.

III

Remember? I was standing on the
skeletal porch of the millennial church.
It was morning, and the potted plants
spoke with the conviction of absolute truth.
The busload of sinful souls rumbled past,
on a pedestal of frustrations and proofs.
It turned back,
like a coastal tide.
And swearing, good-naturedly, I mounted that stairway.
I loved the chill,
the life-sown cold that traveled as we stumbled
over dead sea-shells, amid a cold drizzle.
Finally, anticipation,
the false glance of salvation:
that would guide me, and all men,
to love, joy, hope, happiness,
and divine truth.