Esther Racah Writer & Literary Blogger

Tag: forgotten

  • Lost In My Hallucinations

    Lost In My Hallucinations

    Lost in my hallucinations, seeking insanity and self-destruction. I made of self-loathing my eternal anthem and favourite melody. Listening to the noise of the light of the sun when it hit the petals of my flowers, I followed my own shadow in the green meadow of hope. Kneeling down I strove to protect myself from all that dazzling gleaming since I was made of darkness and decadence.

    Lies and illusions were the source of life for my soul which sought exclusively the sweet poison of deception. Wandering beneath a sad sky deprived of stars and moon, I couldn’t take control of my fears and turmoils, I forgot my name although it was carved on every stone I trampled on. Wildly led by my shattered hopes, I roamed astray into the wilderness of aborted dreams.

    Lost in my hallucinations, I was searching for myself and the sense of life while teardrops were marking imprints on my face. Memories sounded like melodies in my ears I couldn’t avoid facing them because they were like a thick cloud enfolding my heart. And words came to my mind like thunders in the middle of the night. The silent stillness soothed me slowly in my insomnia.

    I knew not what I was really and I never saw my reflection on any mirror. I was a stranger to myself and I never met any other creatures like me. I was utterly cast away, lost in the tides of my own desolation, wondering if I ever could have been different. The scent of death enticed me to follow a trail leading into an abyss of despair, where I could embrace my complete obliteration.

    Having lost my wisdom, I discovered a new shape of fictitious reality enticed to the absurd realm of fantasy. There I was not alive anymore but doomed to inexhaustible agony, where fortune frayed like a worn-out thread spun from the hands of forgotten deities. I was the manifestation of decline and defeat.
    Elisabetta

  • My Heart Is Made Of Ink

    My Heart Is Made Of Ink

    My heart is made of ink and blood
    My heart is made of fantasy and dreams
    Surreal place of celestial beauty and stars
    An enigmatic and impenetrable domain

    A realm where thoughts are tangled in fragile webs
    And spectral creatures swirl beneath the silvery light of forsaken moons
    While silent winds carry tales from ancient fables
    Under a sky brushed with infinite hues

    In this realm, I am both adrift and entwined
    My heart is bound to the ink that flows through my veins
    My entire body is blooming like a flower of rhymes
    Where verses unfurl from my petals and thorns

    A world tempest of emotions surges in my heart
    Crumbling my essence into the dust of decay
    Carving elegies upon the hollow firmament
    Where no stars are allowed to shine

    The constellation of startling stars dissolves into the abyss of emptiness
    The obscure chasm that stretches in front of me
    Alluring me in its terrifying emptiness to swallow my soul
    While letters are dripping from my fingers like midnight raindrops

    I became part of the eternity of the abyssal night
    I am no longer bound by shapes or names,
    I dissolve into the void of eternity,
    Like a tiny snowflake lost in the stillness of oblivion

    My desires are fading into the marrow of the darkness
    Within the silence, mysterious secrets are engraved in the bones of dreadful shadows
    And unspoken ballads are waiting to be unconcealed
    An inextinguishable flame is burning and flickering within the core of twilight

    I am drowning in the deep abysm
    Although even in the most profound darkness, ink still flows like blood from my heart
    And my insolent utterances burn against the void
    A ghostly glimmer where stars once shone

    My heart is made of ink and darkness
    My heart is a requiem of dreams and sorrows
    A secret alcove veiled by the mist of silent elegies.
    Elisabetta

  • The Dark Vault

    The Dark Vault

    The dark vault of death and desires was the hidden alcove where all the dreams became flowers of death.

    Desires painted the antique wallpaper in red blood, casting a spell on whoever dared to dream in a deadly slumber trapped in those walls.

    No light could have pierced the darkness that ruled that niche, not even the silvery moonlight, so shy to surrender to all that gloominess.

    Far away from every kind of imagination, desires, and dreams were nothing else than a beautiful aspect of death, with the only purpose of obliterating everything.

    No dream would have ever come true; instead, they would manifest the only final aim: the perpetual and endless destruction of all that was pure and magnificent.

    The dark vault was a mysterious crypt that existed only in a chimerical realm where time and space made no sense.

    The walls of this eldritch place were adorned with mirrors of betrayal, their shattered surfaces still gleaming.

    Each fragment reflected only the phantoms of lost expectancies and fractured souls. Every sliver concealed a story of despair, hissing in the silent domain of this dark vault.

    In the heart of this chasm stood a grave of glooms carved from obsidian and veined with crimson ichor.

    A tome rested upon the grave; its pages were inked with the anguish of a thousand forgotten souls.

    To read from this book meant to be bound to the vault forever, chained by the weight of desires turned to ash.

    Sobs crept as if disembodied voices murmured secrets of aggrieved existences. They wove around the corners like the Hydra, promising happiness and pleasure but delivering only torments.

    They unveiled tales of love turned decayed, of corrupted ambitions, of defiled innocence—all reduced to hollow vestiges of what could have existed.

    The darkness surrounded everything as a cruel reminder that no dream could ever flourish in such a place.

    Those naive dreamers who stumbled into this dark vault were ensnared by its grim allure. Their desires, once flamboyant and passionate, were siphoned away, leaving their spirits barren and their forms reduced to statues of cinders.

    These uncautious wanderers remained permanently frozen in agony, outstretching their arms and striving to seize dreams that were lost forever.

    The vault itself seemed like a living creature, feeding on the despair it provoked and expanding its labyrinth routes with each new prey.

    New grotesque chambers unfurled like malignant blooms, adorned with relics of devastated hearts and the skeletal relics of every aborted dream.

    There was no escape in this wicked vault, for it was an eternally cursed and tragic realm—a liminal space that swallowed all, reducing everything to echoes in its mournful symphony.

    The dark vault was the embodiment of the inevitable, where every dream, every desire, every spark of life came to die.
    Esther Elizabeth Racah

  • The Invisible Sparkle

    The Invisible Sparkle

    The invisible sparkle in a world that doesn’t exist yet,
    Like a flower suffocated by the gelid winter snow,
    Struggling cries of a dream forever stilled, unmet,
    Trapped in shadows where the winds won’t blow.

    A sigh drifted in the void’s hollow sound,
    A glimmer of the sublime that was never born,
    Silence shattered what’s yet to be found,
    A seed of light faded into the abyss, torn.

    A fleeting pulse from a heart too broken to repair,
    A thread of hope tangled in despair,
    Draped in the veil of the endless night’s hold,
    Fading into nothing, lost to the aether.

    In this pointless realm where illusions had become a reality,
    Unseen suns refused to rise or fall,
    A phantom dream trapped in twilight’s will,
    Its presence was known, yet not at all.

    For what existed without a trace,
    What flickers yet was never there,
    Could time revive its fleeting grace,
    Or would it die in hollow air?

    The flower crushed beneath frozen skies,
    Yearning for a spring that would never come,
    A sparkle dimmed in eternal disguise,
    The silent whisper of a life undone.

    Its scent forgotten, its petals closed,
    In a garden where nothing dared to bloom,
    A magic world where the future’s doors were forever closed,
    And the past lay buried in the gloom.

    The invisible sparkle flickered no more,
    A light that faded into the unmarked night,
    Lost in the pages of an unwritten lore,
    A shadow swallowed by eternal delight.

    The frozen winds still howled their song,
    In a dwelling that never came to be,
    And in the silence, lost all along,
    The invisible sparkle faded to memory.

    In the void of a forgotten dream,
    Where the eternity itself unravelled slowly,
    Dreams and fantasies vanished in flow,
    But only shadows knew their woe.

    The invisible sparkle, long since gone,
    Left no mark, no trace, no song.
    In stillness, it forever lies,
    A ghost beneath the unseen skies.
    Esther Elizabeth Racah

  • The Ghosts of the Forgotten

    The Ghosts of the Forgotten

    The ghosts of the forgotten wandered near,
    In twilight’s grasp, they did appear.
    Their forms were faint, like fading mist,
    And shadows clung where the light was kissed.

    Their whispers rose with night’s cold wreath,
    Echoes of life were now tinged with death.
    They lingered where the darkness fell,
    Between the world and some lost hell.

    Among the ruins, they found their place,
    Where time had left no single trace.
    The walls were cracked, the stones were bare,
    And sorrow hung upon the despair.

    The moon above, an eerie eye,
    Watched over where the spirits did sigh.
    Its silver light fell upon the ashen ground,
    Gave shape to those who made no sound.

    They drifted through the shattered halls,
    Where faded portraits lined the walls.
    Their eyes were empty, cold as stone,
    Forever trapped, forever alone.

    And in the corners, shadows grew,
    Where dreams decayed, and fear came into view.
    The ghosts would reach with hands of frost,
    Reminders of what once was lost.

    Their laments merged in mournful cries,
    A symphony of endless sighs.
    They sang of grief and silent dread,
    Of restless nights among the dead.

    Nevertheless, in their sorrow, there was grace,
    A haunting beauty in their face.
    For though they roamed in death’s embrace,
    Their longing time could not be erased.

    And as the night gave way to dawn,
    The ghosts of the forgotten were gone.
    They vanished with the morning’s stealth,
    Returning to their quiet and eternal death.

    But among the ruins, still and grey,
    Their presence lingers with the day.
    And all who wander through that place,
    Will feel the chill of their cold embrace.

    A last desire might have been exposed,
    That every whispered secret might remain undisclosed,
    Until the very end of the eternal darkness,
    Where time surrendered to a haunting stillness.
    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

  • Forgotten Night

    Forgotten Night

    Forgotten night, it hung over the town, its presence like a heavy shroud that smothered the streets in darkness. The lamps flickered weakly, their dim light swallowed by the suffocating gloom. No one remembered when the sun had last set or if it had ever risen again, and time had twisted in on itself, coiling and folding like a serpent devouring its tail.

    It was a forgotten night, covering everything, cloaking the buildings in shadow. The town had been abandoned long ago, or so it seemed. Windows were boarded up, doors left ajar, and the streets were empty. Yet, there was a sense of something lingering, unseen eyes watching from the shadows. The silence was unnatural, broken only by the occasional creak of wood or the distant howl of wind through the empty alleys.

    Forgotten night, it whispered secrets to the wind, carrying them on the chill breeze that swept through the empty town. Wandering the streets, unknown footsteps echoed faintly in the stillness. There were no signs of life, no movement save for the shifting shadows that seemed to haunt. The air was thick with the scent of decay, of things long past their time. The town itself was eroding, crumbling away under the weight of years.

    The forgotten night consumed everything, leaving no trace of what had once been. It was unmistakable now, weaving itself through every crack, enveloping all in its path like a shroud. The darkness was alive, shifting, breathing, and could be perceived as an icy wind. There was no escape from the forgotten night, no light to guide the way—only the endless obscurity, swallowing everything in its path, erasing all that had ever been.
    Esther Elizabeth Racah

  • Blank Silence

    Blank Silence

    Blank silence filled the solitary mansion as if the very air had been stilled by unseen hands. The echoes of sighs, once alive and vibrant voices, were now long dead, leaving only an oppressive quiet that seeped into the walls. The moon outside cast a frost and pale glow through the decayed windows, but even its light seemed muted, as though it dared not bother the stillness.

    Blank silence ruled the ancient residence, its weight pressing down on every surface. There had been a time when happiness and dreams resounded there when the sound of life loaded the halls. Now, only shadows remained, creeping and crawling over the furniture, whispering secrets that no one could ever hear. The rhythmic sway of a pendulum clock once measured time, but even that had ceased. Time itself had frozen, trapped in the grip of this hollow stillness.

    Blank silence settled deep into those who wandered through the mansion, searching for something that could no longer be remembered. The wind stroked the faded wallpaper; dead leaves ran over dusty books and cracked mirrors. But nothing looked back. There were no reflections here, no memories to cling to—only the vast emptiness stretching on and on. Invisible steps were soundless, and a ghostly breath barely could become a whisper in the choking air.

    Blank silence consumed everything, swallowing the house and all within it. The portraits on the walls stared out with blank, lifeless eyes, and the furniture seemed to sag under the weight of years. No one could tell how long they had been wandering, how many nights they had spent drifting through these halls. Time had lost all meaning here. The silence was eternal, an endless void that had stripped away all sense of reality. There was no sound, no voice, no cry. Only the hollow echo of nothingness stretched out before those who dared to wander, promising no escape.
    Esther Elizabeth Racah

  • The Withering Tree

    The Withering Tree

    The Withering Tree
    by Esther Elizabeth Racah

    The withering tree stood bare amidst the wood,
    Its branches once reached for skies long gone.
    Leaves had fallen where they proudly stood,
    Resilience faded with each new dawn.

    Its trunk was gnarled, scarred by time,
    Rooted deep in forsaken earth.
    It had struggled to grasp a fleeting rhyme
    Of seasons past and vanished mirth.

    Winter winds had howled through its limbs,
    Shaking loose the last of pride.
    Each gust was a reminder of forgotten hymns
    In the cold where warmth had died.

    Spring had brought no buds from its bark,
    No whispers of renewal’s grace.
    The withering tree remained stark in the dark,
    A witness to nature’s cruel embrace.

    Summer’s sun had bypassed its boughs,
    Casting shadows on its forlorn frame.
    While life thrived in neighbouring crowds,
    The tree had stood still, devoid of flame.

    Autumn had arrived, but no colours blazed—
    They had long since faded away.
    The withering tree had endured in a sombre daze,
    A symbol of endless, silent decay.

    The ground beneath it had cracked and dried,
    No rain to quench its thirsty roots.
    Silent beneath an empty sky,
    Where once it had borne green shoots.

    Each storm that passed had left no mark;
    Its branches swayed but never bent.
    The tree had remained a hollow arc,
    Its growth and life long spent.

    It stood as a sombre sight,
    A monument to forgotten days.
    Its vibrant leaves had lost their light,
    In a landscape shrouded by decay’s haze.

    As seasons changed and years went by,
    The tree became a ghostly shade.
    Its story whispered to the sky,
    In silence, where it slowly decayed.

    In the forest where it once reigned,
    The withering tree’s memory waned—
    A symbol of time’s relentless strain,
    Where life’s echoes had long been drained.

  • The Silent Room

    The Silent Room

    The Silent Room
    by Esther Elizabeth Racah

    In the silent room where time had lost its way,
    Faint sighs stirred the dusty air.
    Furniture draped in a forgotten grey,
    While shadows lingered, fading in despair.

    The clock’s hands rested in a frozen trance,
    Its pendulum still, mid-arc and paused.
    Sunlight filtered through a dim expanse,
    Casting shapes where silence caused.

    Curtains hung in tattered, faded folds,
    Once vibrant hues were now dulled and cold.
    A chair with threads of age-old gold—
    Vacant, though its tales were bold.

    Walls absorbed the stories of the past,
    Depicting moments long passed by.
    Unspoken secrets held fast
    In the hush where memories lie.

    The dust had settled on forgotten tomes,
    Books whose pages faded to air—
    Their tales were lost in abandoned homes,
    Their words dissolved in silent despair.

    The aura grew heavy with lingering weight,
    Of cries and songs that faded away.
    The silent room remained in the still estate,
    A portrait of ghosts held in sway.

    Cobwebs laced the corners with care,
    Delicate threads in dim light clung.
    Suspended in languid air,
    A monument to decay’s tongue.

    The phantom chimes of a dead clock
    Marked time in a place untouched by change.
    Shadows stretched in twisting mock,
    In this stillness, life seemed estranged.

    The room held its breath in a heavy pause,
    A space where past silence was sung.
    Echoes of old, forgotten applause
    Hung in the air where emptiness clung.

    Every corner harboured a secret past,
    Whispers of voices long since gone.
    The silence stretched, vast and vast,
    In this room where, time was withdrawn.

    The walls echoed with a distant sigh,
    Forgotten reveries of days gone by.
    In this void where nothing could reply,
    Only silence reigned beneath the sky.

© Esther Racah 2025. All rights reserved.