Esther Racah Writer & Literary Blogger

Tag: Cobwebs

  • Victimised By My Desires

    Victimised By My Desires

    Victimised by my desires and love
    I try to detach from my heart’s impulses
    But it is useless because I am chained completely
    Like a prey of my own longings, craving for my soul

    I keep believing in my dreams and impossible chimeras
    Never breaking the chain of my own distress
    Trusting love and its cruel games
    A realm of beauty and deception

    Victimised by my desires and obsessions
    I get lost in my dreams where I feel safe and protected
    And I sing my song of love and self-destruction
    As a way to cast a spell over myself over and over again

    Alive and dead
    Happy and sad
    I fade away into the darkness of my life
    Becoming a victim of my emotions and weakness

    Every time that my dreams whisper lies to me
    I feel euphoric and powerful as I’m destined to a perpetual merriment
    Instead, I fall into the profound abyss of misery
    Where I compassionately cry crystal teardrops

    I never stop sighing in this valley of desolation
    As I’m permanently condemned to wander endlessly with no destination
    As I’m permanently condemned to never find peace in my innermost spirit

    Seized by cobwebs of love and impossibilities
    Abducted into secret alcoves of empty vows
    I surmise that my own delusions are real, mistaking them for truths
    And see only exquisite beauty in this world because I want to believe so

    In my dark chamber, I cry and sigh
    In my secret niche, I embrace oblivion
    Aware that nobody, absolutely nobody, thinks about me
    In this senseless existence, deprived of empathy

    Forlorn and disenchanted, I wait for the true love
    Although I’m sure I can feel it, and I can see it as a beautiful vision
    As I’m very foolish and ingenue, losing easily control of my feelings
    And I’m glad to fall into the trap of my longings
    And I’m delighted that I’m victimised by my desires.
    Elisabetta

  • Cobwebs

    Cobwebs

    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

  • The Castle By The Ocean

    The Castle By The Ocean

    The castle by the ocean stood on a cliff ruled by shadows at night,
    An ancient, towering fortress, fierce and fantastic, haunted and forlorn.
    It rose from the rock, a sentinel of stone and memory,
    Bearing witness to countless storms, its walls were stroked by time and tide.

    Waves mild and intense disclosed secrets long heretofore,
    Stories of love and death, of struggles fought and lives surrendered.
    In the moon’s pale, ghostly glares, spectres roamed the halls at dusk,
    Their steps echoed through the aisles, a mournful melody.

    Turrets pierced through the mist, emerged scornful against the sky,
    Their silhouettes were a stark contrast to the swirling fog below.
    Windows, once alive with lamps, now gazed upon the sea,
    Stares of sorrow, dark and unbound, reflected the endless expanse.

    The castle’s gates, long rusted shut, held tales of ancient treasures,
    Of kings and queens, of fearless knights, their legends carved in gravel.
    The castle by the ocean with walls carved by time and storms kept secret stories from days sunk in oblivion,
    Each pebble bore the weight of a history’s silent song.

    Mirrors of the past stuck around inside every tormented chamber,
    In each stone, a hidden misery and a remembrance were entombed.
    The ballroom, now empty, once rang with giggle and mirth,
    Feasts and proms, melodies raised, celebrating life and inception.

    The castle by the ocean sobbed, a lament to the sky,
    Where restless spirits never perished, bound to this earthly realm.
    They wandered through the twilight, shades of what once was,
    Guardians of forgotten lore lost in time’s relentless haze.

    The library, with dusty tomes, held knowledge long since known,
    Books of wisdom, spells, and dreams, their pages now unattended.
    Cobwebs draped the chandeliers, their crystals dull and silver,
    Once sparkling at the candlelight, now dimmed by centuries’ decay.

    The courtyard, overgrown with wild shrubs, where flowers used to bloom,
    Now lay as silent witness to nature’s quiet doom.
    However, the castle by the ocean stood firm, defiant against time,
    A relic of a bygone era, preserved in sorrow’s tears.

    The castle by the ocean became a monument to the past,
    An ancient, towering fortress, severe and feral, tormented and desolate.
    Its heritage, etched in stone and sea, whispered on the wind,
    A tale of unyielding resolve, where ghouls endlessly persisted.
    Esther Elizabeth Racah

  • An Enigma

    An Enigma

    An enigma hid in the mansion of forgotten dreams,
    Where shadows whispered silent screams,
    Shrouding the enigma, cloaked in night,
    A tale obscured from mortal sight.

    Mirrors and ghosts haunted the halls,
    Reflecting secrets through eerie walls,
    Glimmers of the past in moonlit haze,
    Lost in time’s labyrinthine maze.

    Candles flickered, wan and pale,
    Telling secrets of the frail,
    Of love that perished, dreams that bled,
    In rooms where silence masked the dead.

    Mirrors cracked by sorrow’s hand,
    Reflected a world so dark, so grand,
    Where whispered words and solemn cries blended with the wind’s mournful sighs,
    Lost relics of a time long banned.

    Portraits stared with hollow eyes,
    Guardians of forgotten lies,
    Their painted smiles hid the tears,
    Of long-lost souls and vanished years.

    Cobwebs draped the chandelier,
    Rustling with each breath of fear,
    As footsteps echoed on the floor,
    A haunting rhythm, evermore.

    The garden, wild with thorns and greed,
    A relic of time’s cruel speed,
    Where once bloomed roses, red and fair,
    Now stands a graveyard of despair.

    The clock tower, rusted, struck no chime,
    A sentinel to decaying time,
    Its hands froze in endless plight,
    Marking the hour of infinite night.

    In the library, dust-covered tomes,
    Spoke of lives and silent glooms,
    Of poets lost in melancholy,
    Their words were a dance of solemn folly.

    By the hearth, now cold and dead,
    Lay ashes of words that once were said,
    Their warmth, a memory, now faded,
    In silence, their essence was jaded.

    The ballroom, grand, now stood forlorn,
    Echoing with a silent horn,
    Where once the waltz of life granted delight,
    Now shadows danced in the muted light.

    An ancient portrait framed in gold,
    Of shadows, beautiful and bold,
    Their eyes, an enigma, deep and wide,
    Held secrets of the dark inside.

    Whispers floated through the air,
    Of love betrayed, of deep despair,
    A haunting tale of sorrow’s kiss,
    An enigma wrapped in the mist.

    The attic held a secret chest,
    With treasures lost and stories left in bequest,
    A diary of a broken heart,
    Torn apart, a tragic art.

    Beneath the mansion’s grand façade,
    A magic vault where shadows guarded,
    A legacy of pain and woe,
    Where tears and whispers dwindled low.

    The enigma, wrapped in sorrow’s veil,
    A ghostly ship in endless sail,
    Its secrets whispered through the gloom,
    In the mansion, an eternal garden of thorns that never ceased to bloom.
    Esther Elizabeth Racah

  • The Melancholy Manor

    The Melancholy Manor

    The melancholy manor, grand yet worn,
    Hosted a ghost of sorrow born,
    Its halls were cold, its rooms were bare,
    With echoes of despair.

    The chandelier, it swayed with ease,
    In the drafts of phantom breezes,
    Its crystals caught the moon’s cold light,
    Casting shadows in the night.

    Portraits hung on walls of dust,
    Faces faded, lost to rust,
    Their gazes, they followed every move,
    In this mansion, none could have soothed.

    A piano in the corner stood alone,
    Its keys were untouched by mortal hands,
    It played a tune of deep lament,
    A melody of sorrow spent.

    In the library, books decayed,
    Their pages brown, their words away,
    Each ancient tome was a tale of love and loss,
    Of souls that paid the highest cost.

    The garden, wild with creeping vines,
    Its beauty was lost to dark edges,
    A fountain dry, its waters gone,
    A symbol of what’s passed and done.

    The mirrors cracked, reflecting the past,
    Of memories that could not have lasted,
    A phantom’s face, a spectral tear,
    They waited for someone who was not near.

    The staircase creaked with every step,
    A sound that made the silence weep,
    Its bannister, a cold embrace,
    Of hands that longed for warmest grace.

    The clock ticked in mournful chime,
    A metronome of endless time,
    In every corner, shadows played,
    In the manor, where ghosts stayed.

    Whoever found themselves trapped inside,
    This house of sorrow, thick and evanescent,
    Remembered those who lived before,
    And left their grief within its doors.

    The melancholy manor was silent and forsaken,
    On the inside, lingering threads of lost despair,
    The manor held its secrets tight,
    Within the grip of endless nights.

    Cobwebs draped like silken shrouds,
    Ensnaring dreams beneath their clouds,
    Time was immutable in haunted gloom,
    Where sorrow was the only bloom.

    Outside, the wind began to howl,
    Echoing the manor’s mournful growl,
    The world moved on, but there it stayed,
    A relic of the lives betrayed.

    No respite from the phantom’s call,
    Bound to the melancholy hall,
    The manor wept with ghostly grace,
    A timeless, haunted, solemn place.
    Esther Elizabeth Racah