Esther Racah Writer & Literary Blogger

Tag: decadent

  • The Mask Of Illusion

    The Mask Of Illusion

    The mask of illusion hid behind an ephemeral mirth
    Whenever I tried to pick the sublime flowers of joy
    Pretending that I could be worthy of happiness and hope

    Only in my dreams, I could see my confined heart
    In a cage made of crystal and gold
    From which it could never be set free
    Because the destiny of my soul was doomed forever to indifference and distress

    That was the reason I fed myself with the poison of illusions
    Illusions hiding behind a mask of conventional pretences
    I’ve always loved lying to myself

    In the rush for survival, I forgot my real name
    Getting lost amidst the euphoric frenzy of fleeting instants
    I did let myself dissolve in the labyrinth of shadows

    The mask of illusion became deformed and heavier
    And underneath it, there was only a haze of darkness
    A void where once upon a time there was a glowing light

    Silence replaced hopes and desires
    And I forgot the sight of truth and reality
    The spell of bitter lies had enchanted me

    Hence, my despair grew deeper in the garden of thorns
    A secret garden where no flower of joy could ever bloom
    The mask of illusion and deceit sunk deep into the cold soil, made of fragments of shattered delusions

    No soul would ever find this kingdom of nowhere
    Impenetrable and invisible to ordinary sight
    This magic realm of enigmas and secrets concealed every untruth and illusion
    Though every fragment of it was woven from fallacies, for all the masks of illusion lay buried beneath

    Surprised no more
    I surrendered to the sweet lullabies coming from each flower
    With the certitude that I was one of my dreams

    Victim of my own hallucinations
    I wandered endlessly through the spectral haze of my illusions
    Surrounded by the decay of faded memories that lingered like lost ghosts
    Never to return to my forsaken reality.
    Elisabetta

  • Frantic Pangs of Dismay

    Frantic Pangs of Dismay

    Frantic pangs of dismay ensnared every passionate heart,
    Once it became trapped inside the abyss of solitude and delusions,
    Still and frozen was this garden of sorrow and grief,
    Where for each buried heart, a crimson rose arose in all its exquisite magnificence.

    No mortal could have dared inside this overwhelming realm of death and love,
    Whose soil was soaked in blood and betrayal,
    The blood of those unfortunate who fell prey to the magic spell of poisonous passions in the midst of secrets and arcane legends.

    Veiled in shadows lay the remnants of ephemeral oaths,
    Of lovers who dared, then despaired and dissolved in mist,
    Bound in the haunting chasms of this forsaken land,
    Where fervent vows were carved on stones now cracked and senseless.

    Each petal seemed to bleed, crimson-stained in sombre grace,
    An epitaph for souls who perished in love’s ruthless snare,
    While moonlight cast its pallid glow upon forgotten graves,
    And silence reigned, a ghostly song for all who’d met their doom.

    Beneath the roots, relics of devotion lingered motionless dead,
    In twisted knots and burning sighs, entwined in cursed despair.
    In this metaphysical world, phantoms of love and ardour abode, entangled in spectral chains,
    Each sigh came to be an eerie fragment, each stroke a haunting whisper.

    In the midst of the darkness, mist and hollow cries wandered, seeking the warmth of life yet condemned to eternal frost.
    Whilst roses gleamed in shades both decadent and dark,
    Fed by the remnants of hearts broken in bygone epochs.
    Each bloom was a monument to the souls who could not part,
    Bound by longings that left them to decay yet never fade.

    Frantic pangs of dismay flourished in that desolate garden under the weeping moon.
    A tragic fate was but just a warning and a memory of love’s cruel masquerade,
    While beauty buds, yet fester, lurked in the infinite and endless void.
    Esther Elizabeth Racah

  • Night Fantasy

    Night Fantasy

    A night fantasy discloses secrets and enigmas,
    In the darkness of the night,
    When dreams come true.
    Whenever the night falls,
    Longings appear as imperishable lights,
    Faraway from the world of squalid reality.

    Dead leaves fall on the soil made of lush,
    Wonders and splendour attend the display of a starry night.
    A night fantasy is like a monument to beauty and sublime,
    In which time and space no longer rule.

    In this fantastic realm, the roots of cruelty and egotism don’t feed any garden,
    Whose flowers and trees breathe freely the pure essence of love and amusement,
    And only the whispers of eternity remain.

    In this tranquil abode where shadows weave,
    An aura of myths that time can not reclaim,
    The moon’s pale glow caresses the earth,
    And dreams run away like ethereal birds,
    In a sky that knows no boundaries or despair.

    Within this haven, sorrow finds no place,
    Nor does the agony of unfulfilled desires,
    Since each moment is a crystal of delight,
    Caught in the silver web of night’s embrace.
    The gentle winds sing ancient lullabies,
    Stirring the clouds with soft and mystic grace.

    The night’s enchantment knows no end,
    As beauty’s spirit wanders through the dark,
    Disclosing the world’s secrets, sacred heart.
    Each star is a lantern of forgotten lore, Illuminating paths unseen by day’s harsh gaze.

    Beneath this spell, reality itself fades away,
    And only the truth of the night’s fantasy remains,
    Where every heartbeat resounds vanishes in the night’s silent harmony,
    And the dreams wander through obscure realms,
    Embracing the enchantment that forever belongs.
    Esther Elizabeth Racah

  • Decadent Dreams

    Decadent Dreams

    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

  • Moping In Solitude

    Moping In Solitude

    Moping in solitude
    Loyalty and pleasure
    And a strange state of daze
    It was neither plain nor fair
    Yet as I sat alone
    A weary heart desiring to go
    So lost at last
    I’m alone in everything
    With dreams made of light
    Before the eternal death
    Suffering the time with faith
    Discovering absurdities and disappointment

    Moping in solitude,
    Every time I woke up
    And it would be a happy day
    I walk around and fancy
    It seems so little the pain I felt
    To think again about how people acted and thought
    The world is up to see an end
    And I’ll see where I am going
    The reason I have the capability to do so
    One moment, of course, would be enough
    Then know not even a day of desire
    All would be easy but disgrace

    Moping in solitude
    Not looking for any doubt
    I’d like something unrealistic and unreasonable
    I found another smile today from the night
    Now trying to feel overwhelmed by too many impressions
    Over and over again
    On a pleasant highway
    There was not even one reason to stay
    But the road has gone high,
    And, of course, loneliness
    Where love grew dark
    While seeing smirking faces

    Moping in solitude
    Such wonder that’s so fake and useless
    A decadent comfort
    If the end would come
    Because I always knew what was now
    I shouldn’t care
    But listening to the last image
    That would be very pretty
    And yet it really cannot be known
    Of what kind of things
    I must seem to reach out too far
    Beyond any limit and imagination.

    I might envision my defeat
    Loyal to my dreams
    And always lost in the maze of discomfort
    Always hated but never forgotten
    The disease of the ordinary doesn’t affect me
    I will never conform to others’ will.
    Esther Elizabeth Racah