Esther Racah Writer & Literary Blogger

Tag: gothic poem

  • Dreams Of Oblivion

    Dreams Of Oblivion

    Dreams of oblivion darkened my sleep.
    They were like palliatives for my searing pain,
    numbing my heart and soothing—
    If only for a moment—
    My spasms of fear.

    My disappointments had become like cobwebs woven inside my heart,
    darkening every joy, even the smallest.
    Ultimately, I had not chosen my fate,
    and I groped in the dark uncertainty,
    trying to understand where I was and who I was.

    The disdain and aloofness that oozed from the faces of mortals who had crossed my miserable existence
    had transformed me into a silent, sombre shadow
    whose image did not appear in any mirror.

    In my dreams of oblivion and madness, mediocre monsters that sought to tear me apart
    appeared menacingly in the realm I tried to protect and keep as mine.
    Their intrusion was truly an act of violence.
    Their intent to destroy me was the source of my fears.

    Ancient dusty clocks tolled the time, which always seemed the same.
    The dust of decay and sorrow fell upon me like a heavy rain,
    covering me completely and turning me into an invisible shell.

    Watchful and evanescent veils covered me, so as not to show me the harsh reality whose injustice and squalor could have tainted the integrity of my heart. And my attempt to awaken from that stupor mixed with despair was in vain.

    I was about to become oblivion.
    I was about to become my dreams.
    I was about to become an ephemeral, evanescent creature,
    almost invisible and nonexistent,
    that no mortal of the common reality
    could have seen with their limited gaze
    shrouded in prejudice.
    I was about to become an ephemeral, evanescent creature,
    almost invisible and nonexistent,
    that no mortal of the common reality
    could have seen with their limited gaze
    shrouded in prejudice.

    Perhaps I myself was an illusion,
    perhaps I had become a utopia or a chimaera.
    The devastating pain had transformed me
    and erased every trace of my mortality.
    Lisa

  • 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

  • Whispers in the Gloom

    Whispers in the Gloom

    Whispers in the gloom, in the abyss of shadows, where no light gleams,
    A cursed wind stirs midnight dreams.
    Through halls and corridors of ancient stone,
    The whispers rise, a hollowed moan.

    Beneath the vault of blackened skies,
    Where graves of mystery in silence lie,
    The earth does tremble, cold and bare,
    As phantoms wail in lost despair.

    Within the castle’s crumbling walls,
    A chilling echo softly calls,
    From darkened rooms and passageways untold,
    Where time has decayed, all that’s bold.

    The portraits watch with eerie and ghostly eyes,
    The souls of those who dared defy.
    Their faces twist in frozen pain,
    Trapped forever, lost, astray.

    The moon, a pale and spectral sight,
    Shines down upon the cursed night.
    It bathes the land in a ghostly glow,
    And feeds the fear that lurks below.

    The trees, once green, are now twisted, rare,
    Reach out like claws into the air.
    They scrape and groan, their limbs entwined,
    As though they grasp for what they’ve pined.

    In every gust, a voice resounds,
    A tale of grief that knows no bounds.
    Of love once pure, now turned to dust,
    Of hearts betrayed and broken trust.

    A maiden fair with golden hair,
    Once, she wandered those halls with a soft embrace.
    Her beauty bright, her merriment a delight,
    But darkness stole her soul one night.

    She wanders now, a ghostly wraith,
    Her eyes alight with long-lost faith.
    Her hands reach out, but none remain
    To save her from eternal pain.

    The ancient bell begins to toll,
    A knell that shakes the very soul.
    Its ringing marks the hour of doom,
    The end for all who dare presume.

    And in the depths, the darkness grows,
    Its tendrils creeping, slow and close.
    It claims the lost, the broken, the weak,
    It finds the hearts that dare to seek.

    A wandering spirit, with steps unsure,
    Might fall into the darkness’ lure.
    For whispers in the gloom will swell,
    In lands where shadows ever dwell.
    The night is long, and none may tell.
    Esther Elizabeth Racah

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