Decadent dreams hid beneath a sky of velvet blackness,
Where the moonlight dripped with silver gleam,
I wandered through the shadows’ track,
Ensnared within a luscious scent of peonies and magnolias.
The atmosphere was rich with crystal cries,
Each echoing from lips unseen,
Their hollow tones, like lullabies,
Enchanted by the night’s routine.
The trees, like skeletons, did sway,
Their bony fingers grazed my skin,
And in the distance, far away,
A mansion stood, draped deep within.
Its windows glowed a ghostly red,
Where once the living thrived in grace,
Now filled with spirits long since dead,
Whose laughter lingered in that place.
I climbed the steep steps of crumbling stone,
Through doors that sighed beneath my hand,
Inside, I stood cold and alone like a flower made of bones,
Within a hollow, haunted land.
The walls were clothed in silk and gold,
Yet dust adorned each tarnished crown,
And tapestries, though bright and bold,
Now sagged beneath the weight of frowns.
I strolled in halls that stretched like years,
Where mirrors showed no form of mine,
And every sculpture fell in drops with tears,
From eyes that once dared cross the line.
A figure there, with a gown of night,
Approached me in a silent haze,
Her face a mask of absent light,
Her touch was a spark of ancient days.
She whispered softly in my ear,
Of pleasures lost and time undone,
Of paths that led to pain and fear,
And dreams decayed beneath the sun.
I left her there, a wraith of yore,
And fled the mansion’s ghastly glow,
But still her voice, forevermore,
Remains with me wherever I go.
For in that place of nightmarish gleams,
I found no peace, no sweet release,
Only the echo of decadent dreams,
That haunts me now and never ceases.
Esther Elizabeth Racah
