by Manuel Madera 


Confessions last—
       The snow plummets to
    The nameless ground we
  Have crossed and hopped
        Along the sidewalk of evermore
   We stroll and skate
       I did not know
           I did not
   Whether true has been true
        Whether you abide by
    Sentiments of peach
  And love of cranberry
     So pale hands shiver
  Raspberry lips quiver but your smile
        Set ablaze by confessions
     Greeted with indecisive intimacy
    Is it divided mortality or reflections
       Of impassioned antiquity?
   There imprisoned in the stillness
     Of your loving eyes of eternal green
       Or oceanic blue or intoxicated brown
    I gather courage and courage it is
        Withstanding repudiation of
    Earned cohesion between soul
       Of moss and grimy mold
   And soul of gracious gold
        If there is a hand to hold
          One with promise to conquer worlds
       It is that of mine
           Let our icy fingers touch
      And walk through a door
          In the middle of the night.


Hundreds and thousands—
It is swimming on a bed
Floating in the depths
Of a quilt of watery blue
Bubbles of sorrow vanishing
From my mouth
And thoughts drown while
The bulb in the sky
Flickers and twists
Artificial and plastic decrees
Melancholy trips on the tips
Of a burnt cigarette
Clenching on my florescent lips
Bit by fangs of indecency
Hazed by hypnopompic absurdity
Where the devilish virility
Loses sensation of conceit
Replaced by incatious deceit
I thought of loving you
Loving you I have stayed
But tomorrow is nearing upon us
And yesterday I have lived
Farewell to the forever
I promised when sorrow
Was much less than a past.

About the Author:

Manuel Madera and his poetry emerge from the dreary environs of the world, steadily ascending the ladder of prominence and success. Jumping from pseudonym to pseudonym, Madera gathers the world around him and turns it into a world, or several, of his own.