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I'm uploading My Dreams for Tonight.
When the Sun sets beyond the Sea.
Come forth, My Pretty Woman.
Wheresoever U may Be.
When I step into Light, next Morning.
I must feel your Warmth, on My Skin.
My Soul must brim with Happiness.
So there's a flutter in My Heart Within.
Life at times, can be a Monstrous Devil.
That may sail U on dying Streams.
Feelings are the Fabric to Our Souls,
I Fashion them out, with My Dreams.
Emotions are just like Wild Fires.
They have mystic powers to Destroy.
Sometimes they have the power to rebuild.
So U sleep, on a bed of Crimson Joy.
M Solav Mar 2021
All of those past events
The mountain climb, and the descent
They're scrolling past to lay my

And once I'd gone to the other side
Despite all that I had left behind
They've started hunting for my

And they're gone,
Yes they're gone,
While I'm torn
In the maze of my

And they're gone,
Yes they're gone,
While I'm tearing
The fabric of my
Written on July 22, 2020.

— Copyright © M. Solav —

This work may not be used in entirety or in part without the prior approval of its author. Please contact for usage requests. Thank you.
Man Feb 2021
there's secrets, hidden beneath the corduroy
a world of wonder
where admission varies
guest to guest,
it's a game of guess
at whether you're let in
or you're like the rest,
corduroy's the fashion though
for sure
they'll be others
that hold you high up
just to push you down under
AE Dec 2020
In the fabric of time exists
moonlit seas of happenstance
and rose-scented memories
sewed in with golden beads
but it seems to me that life has found a way,
to sew in worn-out frayed threads,
that have lost their silky reflection

yet you,
with your resilient skin
found a way to make
embroidered mosaics of colour
out of the dissonance between good and bad
Blind Pathos Sep 2020
You can see it in a drowned man’s eyes
In the pawn shop window I just passed
Frosty truths that come to the table uninvited

The poet and the truth
Face to face, one whistles, one listens
The napkins fill with cognitive snapshots

The poet drowns in words
Just wanting to say something
Or hear it said at all

The dying words from a poet’s mouth
Blow about in autumn color
Drifts and piles that shape the years of practice

What's worth saying has to be said by someone
So a poet goes looking and would suppose
That words rubbed together right would produce

Word museum sentences ripe with meaning
Phantasms haunting great books and minds
Torches lighting the way for all

The poet takes aim and fires
At the fog of meaning
He tugs at God’s coat tail
We are creators, created in the image of God. Like the fish we are having a hard time realizing the water around us. There is more that has not been created than has been.
Mystic Ink Plus Mar 2020
Simply, not like
What we think of

One day
A time will come
When you will have
What can be
That all
Once you wished for

Looking around
You may crave for
Something authentic
That can
Just be felt
A reason to be
What it's all about
Genre: Observational
Theme: Life on small things || value of life
Note: All the possession we hold may glit with euphoric comfort ,  remember all that glits have potential to cause blindness. And you know what blindness means or don't you? Humans are alike. Almost, alike.
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