Tag: eerie poetry

  • The Echoes of Dust

    The Echoes of Dust

    The echoes of dust rumbled in halls once grand,
    Now only stripped of light,
    Where shadows crept to drown the night,
    The echoes of dust stirred, though no one spoke,
    A distant memory awoke.

    The ancient tapestries, now frayed and torn,
    Once told of splendour, now forlorn,
    Their colours dulled by time’s cruel hand,
    As dust engulfed this fallen land.

    The mirrors were cracked, no faces shown,
    But whispers from the long ago,
    Reflections of a life erased,
    Now swallowed by the void’s embrace.

    The chandeliers no longer gleamed,
    Their crystals dim, devoid of dreams,
    They dangled low as if to fall,
    A final toll within the hall.

    And in the air, a lingering chill,
    A scent of dust that did not stand still,
    It twisted and curled like faded smoke,
    A phantom of the words unspoken.

    The noises of footsteps of forgotten years,
    Once filled these halls with hopes and fears,
    But now they faded, like fleeting breaths,
    Replaced by stillness, cloaked in death.

    What ghosts remained, though none were seen,
    In every crack, in every seam?
    What tales were buried in the stone,
    Of sorrows known and seeds unsown?

    Since time, it claimed both joy and woe,
    And left behind a silent show,
    Where every room, so cold, so vast,
    Replayed the moments of the past.

    And here, within these walls of dust,
    Where once was love, there was only rust,
    The echoes of dust lingered, faint and frail,
    A mournful song, a timeless wail.

    What secrets did this place once keep,
    Now buried in its endless sleep?
    For, in the end, all things must fade,
    Forever, in deep shadows, the silence lay.
    Esther Elizabeth Racah

  • 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 Scent of Emptiness

    The Scent of Emptiness

    The scent of emptiness swept through the hollow air like a deadly breeze,
    A gust like a whisper, cold and bare,
    It carried with it, faint and slow,
    The scent of something lost long ago.

    It drifted through rooms, abandoned, still,
    Through spaces void of life or will,
    Where light no longer dared to creep,
    And all that was left remained endless sleep.

    The walls once spoke of ardour and fire,
    Of hearts alive with intense desires,
    But now they crumbled, feeble and frail,
    Their tales of love began to pale.

    The scent of emptiness, it clung,
    A sorrow born of broken things unsung,
    Of merriments lost, of fleeting days,
    Of shadows in forgotten ways.

    What once was rich with scented blooms,
    It now became a house of vacant rooms,
    The echoes fainted, the aura so thin,
    Wanderers felt the dark crawl deep within.

    A withered rose left in a vase,
    Its petals were brown, devoid of grace,
    However, still the scent of old remained,
    A ghost of what it once contained.

    And as ghouls rambled through the dust,
    They felt the weight of brittle rust,
    The scent of emptiness, so sweet,
    It pulled them closer and dragged their feet.

    It chilled the skin, it clawed the mind,
    With memories cruel and unkind,
    A fragrance of despair and fear,
    That pulled the soul ever near.

    In every crevice, every fold,
    The scent of emptiness grew bold,
    It whispered through the cracks of time,
    A lingering perfume of crime.

    For once, these halls were full of life,
    Of joy, of pain, of love and strife,
    Now, nothing stirred but silent dread,
    Where every dream was long since dead.

    Yet something lingered in the gloom,
    A presence watching from the room,
    It smelled the sorrow on the breeze,
    And watched as the shadows froze.

    And in this emptiness, so vast,
    The present faded, the future’s past,
    For nothing lives, and nothing dies,
    In hollow rooms where silence lies.

    The scent of emptiness remained,
    A haunting note, a whispered name,
    And though the world outside may turn,
    Inside, that scent will never burn.
    Esther Elizabeth Racah

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