Cobwebs thrived insidious in every corner of forgotten halls,
Where whispers lingered, faint and cold,
The cobwebs twisted like ancient scrolls,
An embroidery of tales untold.
Each thread, a relic of decay,
Suspended in eternal night,
A brittle web where shadows played,
Draped in the moon’s forsaken light.
Once, the halls had seen great feasts,
Mirths, songs, and countless guests,
But now, the echoes only wept,
For those who’ve long been laid to rest.
Beneath the veil of dust and slime,
Laid remnants of another time,
A fractured mirror on the wall,
Reflected a world about to fall.
The spiders weaved their endless art,
Tracing webs through every part,
Of chandeliers, once grand, now dim,
Their crystals cracked, their edges grim.
Each web they spun was cold and delicate,
A silver thread of death’s design,
It snaked along the wooden floors,
And curls beneath the decaying doors.
There were no footprints to hear,
No living soul had ventured near,
But something swirled within the gloom,
A presence sensed, yet not in view.
The atmosphere was overwhelmed with silent dread,
As if the house itself was dead,
Yet, breathed a life long since concealed,
Beneath the webs that now congealed.
In cobwebs, memories were spun,
Of days long lost, of deeds undone,
And as the wind began to moan,
It echoed the cries of the unknown.
The windows rattled in the night,
Their panes were opaque with age and blight,
The webs quiver, stretch, and sway,
As if they lived, as if they played.
What secrets did these tendrils keep,
In endless folds, in shadows deep?
What stories hanged in each fine thread,
Woven by the long-forgotten dead?
The webs grew thick with dust and time,
A maze of sorrow, dread, and swine,
And as the darkness swallowed everything whole,
It feasted upon the weary souls.
Since, in the end, what stretched ahead,
But tangled webs and lives long dead,
In every corner, every seam,
The cobwebs spun a timeless dream.
Esther Elizabeth Racah
