Esther Racah Writer & Literary Blogger

Tag: forgotten rites

  • Between Dust And Mirrors

    Between Dust And Mirrors

    Between dust and mirrors
    I carried silent letters,
    wrapped in paper made of mist and waiting,
    not filled with confidence—
    but with enchantments.

    I did not know, yet I knew.
    The Sun had greeted me,
    upright, high—
    as in those cards that never lie.

    And I walked,
    through the lower kingdom of the nameless city,
    through the fractures of reality
    none of my sages could explain:
    a black swamp,
    where humanoid larvae and shrieking wraiths
    bared their shadowy teeth
    and brandished blades in the rancid air.

    All was corrupted.
    All was decay.
    Creatures of the underworld
    called me bright star,
    tried to seize me,
    to drain the last whole word from my lips.

    But I walked still,
    even with the Chariot reversed,
    even as the Hanged Man spoke from his unseen cross,
    even as the Moon, askew,
    laughed behind her veil of deception.

    I walked on,
    I proceeded with endurance
    carrying my letters of destiny
    and a name no one can pronounce.
    Unknown among the ruins of grandeur,
    a pilgrim between topaz and filth.

    And then I saw it.
    On the horizon, beyond the bridge of centuries,
    stood an enchanted castle.
    My cherished palace.
    Towers gleaming like guarded dreams,
    mirrored waters whispering of other realms.
    And there, behind an eternal glass veil,
    sat my holy icon,
    keeper of the visions and silence.
    A beacon for those who have lost their path
    but not the flame.

    However, atop those gilded peaks,
    behind windows lit by empty feasts and fools’ champagne,
    The puppets of excess laughed,
    tripping over their own void.
    There, power wears the mask of the jester.

    Nonetheless, between dust and mirrors,
    I carried sorcery and spells.
    Broken enchantments,
    witchcraft writhing in blood-stained claws,
    arcane revelations seeping from the soil like forgotten rites;

    Tarot glyphs ignite beneath cursed fangs,
    a pact inked in shadows and old essence.
    A thread of fate winds unseen,
    binding my name to the arcane roots.

    Thus I crossed
    the border between realms that do not convey,
    with a sharpened awareness
    of one who can no longer close the eyes—
    not even to dream enchanted chimearas.
    Elisabetta

  • Magic Insolence

    Magic Insolence

    Magic insolence evoked profane desires,
    Blooming in the garden of passion,
    When stupor and chaos fed the soil and roots,
    Under a cloudy sky deprived of stars.

    Arcane dreams devoured the bright lights,
    Devoiding the garden of passion with
    Whispers of forgotten rites and shadows,
    As petals withered, blackened in the night.

    The soil became thick with cursed intent,
    Breathed out a sigh of ancient grief,
    While tangled roots writhed, twisting beneath,
    Feeding on darkness, refusing ascent.

    No stars to guide, no moon to shine,
    Only the heft of silent doom,
    As ghostly winds stirred the gloom,
    The garden lay as time resigned.

    The aura itself seemed enthralled by dread,
    A spell unspoken lingered still,
    Bound to the earth with haunting will,
    Where only a magic insolence and madness dared to tread.

    The trees stood twisted, gaunt and bare,
    Their branches claws in the murky air.
    Each leaf that fell was a silent cry,
    A prayer was unanswered beneath the sky.

    The whispers grew louder, fierce and cold,
    Echoing tales of secrets untold.
    A dance of shadows began to weave,
    Between the tombstones of those who grieve.

    The flowers, once vibrant with lustrous hue,
    Now seeped with sorrow, soaked in blood and dew.
    Their beauty lost in the endless night,
    A memory fading, devoured by blight.

    And in the heart of this cursed domain,
    Where once passion thrived, now only pain,
    A wraith emerged from the creeping dark,
    Magic insolence entrapped everything with a mystical spark.

    With a vacant stare, it gazed in despair,
    Bound forever to the garden’s snare.
    A prisoner to the magic’s cost,
    In this garden where all was lost.

    The wind moaned softly, a mournful plea,
    For the magic of insolence would never release what could never be free,
    As the cursed garden stretched its roots,
    To claim the souls of shattered fruits.
    Esther Elizabeth Racah

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