Esther Racah Writer & Literary Blogger

Tag: Gothic Poetry

  • Castaway’s Desires

    Castaway’s Desires

    Castaway’s desires enticed me in the long winter nights, when the frozen branches of hollow trees caressed me softly, as they needed to approach my body.

    The scent of burning candles devoured my enthusiasm and reminded me only of my hopeless misery. An everlasting burning desire swallowed my heart greedily like an invisible demon.

    My insensitive inertia cut my soul into pieces and I let the devastation take advantage of me. I was born to be obliterated and perish an infinite times in endless ways.

    Frenzy and turmoil were my loyal guides like flaming torches in the deepest darkness, and they fed me with their improper wisdom. I felt alive only because I embodied the distress that consumed me, leaving me in ashes.

    Indeed, it was true that scorching passion sometimes might have let me fall in love with things that destroyed, but it was what penetrated every part of me.

    I was made of fire and ashes surrounded by the cold mist of my dark chamber where dimly lit candles were my only merriment.

    The sweet screams of the night recalled to me who I really was. Obsession carved my vein instilling a tainted poison instead of blood. I became a creature of the realm of shadows and wraiths.

    I was consumed by my own fantasies and paranoid hallucinations. I had become the queen of madness among my lost memories of worlds to which I once belonged.

    No mortal entity could see me because I was visible only to creatures of my own. There was no transformation in my staticity.

    I could perceive the manifestation of my own tempest, like a tiny vessel in a stormy sea. Lost in the labyrinth of my dreams and dread, I was unable to discover the existence beyond time.

    The great mystery of seeking my reflection in the immense mirror of life made me realise my nothingness. There was no end and there was no beginning but merely a vague silence clinging to me like luscious ivy.
    Elisabetta Esther

  • The Collapse Of My Haunted Illusions

    The Collapse Of My Haunted Illusions

    The collapse of my haunted illusions began the night of my fall into the dark chasm of my fears, where I’ve been tortured by sharp thorns and daggers, penetrating my heart in every way, and making it bleed to the very last drop of blood.

    My soul was burning alive, and I could hear the screams of my dreams, alive and breathing, to get the last essence of my foolishness. I had tormented scars cherishing my grief and sorrow. All in the while of my transformation and decay.

    I was reborn and died oftentimes, as long as my heart was struck by the many thunders of madness and self-destruction. Everything could have obliterated me in the valley of despair and grief.

    I was bound to the chains of the deserted version of myself and obscure presages. The fate surrendered at the sight of the tower of my solitude, where I was the only captive in the presence of wraiths made of tragic illusions.

    My tragedy was an everlasting and bright gift, like a hidden treasure. I knew not what could be expected beyond the several doors that kept me locked up. I could have screamed all night long and no phantom would have heard.

    My tears were pearls anchored to my neck like sharp hooks, tearing at my skin. While obsessive fears were swallowing my soul, and as much as I might run, they hunted me wherever I wandered during my endless bleak nights.

    Loneliness was retaining me as a creature of its own realm. And the steadiness of silence besieged my delusional abode. My pierced heart dangled from the ceiling and its drops of blood traced sacred symbols on the frigid soil.
    Elisabetta Esther

  • The Night

    The Night

    The night opens my heart, made of tragedies and memories. Silence remains merely an echo of my anguish.

    Sweet is the thought of losing oneself in dreams when they become eternal whispers. The subtle play of revelations and allusions is a gentle kiss of love and passion that time does not disturb.

    Light and shadow merge into one another, in an absolute love. The flames of the heart feed on the solitude of the soul beneath the starlight that no longer shines to illuminate, but to recall lost memories.

    Endless games between illusion and wonder hide in the darkness of light. My sorrowful and shadowed heart has fallen into the chaos of eternal torpor.

    I am a volcano of fire and chaos, surrounded by shadows of anguish and restlessness. My guardians are magical crows and silent hares.

    In my solitude, melancholy and confusion are my faithful spectres that never abandon me.

    Drowsy and dazed, I find refuge in my silent torpor: the distorted mirrors are the signs of my resignation.
    Elisabetta Esther

  • Dreams And Chimaeras

    Dreams And Chimaeras

    Dreams and chimaeras make me forget my worries and anguish.
    Surrounded by memories, broken mirrors, and interrupted cries.
    I lie languid like a flower stunned by the morning dew.

    Silence is a sweet melody that distracts me when I no longer understand where life is leading me.
    And in the night I hear the sound of loneliness like a sudden omen of abandonment and defeat.

    The darkness paints imaginary landscapes in my mind.
    The sound of the clouds reminds me to forget my name and hang my soul upon the shadows to rest.
    Leaden nightmares drag me down into the abyss of despair.

    Far away I can hear the screams of my fears calling out my name.
    So I take the chance to follow their trail in the obsidian forest.
    Where I try to find my image in mirrors that whisper to me.

    Murmurs of blood and betrayal appear to me as shapes of magic bliss.
    In my madness, I exist as a free bird of the night.
    Closed doors become gates to infinity.
    Forever bound to my lack of reality.

    I live in the surreal chasm to which I will always belong.
    Death and love blend like mysterious revelations.
    They own my flesh and my soul eternally.

    Imagination guides me toward the garden of illusions.
    I become the most delusional creature of the realm of shadows.
    Love caresses me as gently as a sharp dagger.

    My heart is in an everlasting bleeding.
    Foolishness possesses me, as I advance in my wisdom.
    What I thought would have destroyed me, gave me a sparkle of death.

    I was dead and I was alive at the same time.
    As an inanimate doll with a burning heart.
    The nothingness stared at me in its boundless ferocity.
    Elisabetta Esther

  • 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

  • Surrounded By Darkness

    Surrounded By Darkness

    Surrounded by darkness and evil spirits
    I wandered lost among dark shapes and whispered truths
    The thorns in my heart traced the path to my destiny
    While secrets and hidden tales were hiding beyond my control

    And I could hear the clock ticking in a rhythmic way
    Almost like a symphony of time and dreams
    Moving lyrical rhymes within my mind like leaves in the wind
    As if fate had determined that I was merely its puppet, to be used at its whim.

    I danced amid the heart of utter darkness
    Amongst phantoms and malevolent ghouls
    Surrounded by darkness and dark shapes
    They whispered secret truths I should be aware of
    They intimated to me to be careful and never trust

    I used my blood to carve all my verses on each stone I met
    While the pain tore me apart like soft cotton candy
    The scent of arcane spells and incense made me feel overwhelmed
    Bewitched by my own demons evoked through ancient tarots
    I lay down on a silent throne of illusions and deception

    So, I chose to remain in silence to seal an invisible oath.
    Elisabetta

  • The Abyss Of Nothingness

    The Abyss Of Nothingness

    The abyss of nothingness swallowed all my fractured desires
    The fear that gripped my heart and that sense of calm, of stability that took hold of my life made me a helpless and insignificant creature, invisible to mortals, yet at the same time the target of their cruelties.

    How much I wished to be different, to be accepted, and to be treated with great respect for who I truly was. But in truth, my entire life was a series of piercing endurance of inhuman suffering, humiliations, cruelties against me, deceit, mockery, traps, attempts to undermine my being, violence, and all the most barbaric and terrifying acts against my soul and myself.

    My life had not been a normal existence—one that no one could have understood. My experience was not a common one. I had lived through a time when my dream had encapsulated me in an ideal, evanescent, and ethereal reality. No one could see me, especially during that period of apparent death. Yes, because for ten long years I had not lived—I had fallen into a deep and fatal dream, isolated from everything and everyone. I had built my own kingdom of dreams and illusions, into which, day by day, I entrusted my very self.

    All the hourglasses in my dwelling had come to a halt, and the flow of time had lost all meaning. The disconnection from the truth that surrounded me had become both a tendency and a habit—one that turned into law. Indeed, I had become like a crystal frozen in time, like a statue untouched by its passing. I carried within me that immaterial sense of my heart, trapped in a confining aura.

    I no longer cared what society thought, nor what people might perceive of me. And so it remains. For my rarity and my strangeness are imperceptible to any human heart. I was accused of things that never were, of things my heart could not even fathom. Everything had vanished like soap bubbles. Nothing remained—only bitter memories or sorrowful ones that dragged me down into the depths of an untouchable abyss.

    Delicate and fragile as I was, I had lost the ability to love, to admire, and to obey mortals. I no longer saw them as similar to me, but rather, I perceived other beings—creatures who had no voice in the human condition—as kindred, as dear to me. And so it was that the abyss of nothingness possessed me, and it will always possess a part of my soul. For I belong to the emptiness and to the darkness.
    Elisabetta

  • Mournful Shadows

    Mournful Shadows

    In the stillness of the night, the sky was stormy and overcrowded with lightning and thunder. Rain was pouring down, and the wind was impetuous.

    The exquisite scent of rainwater perfumed my small chamber from which I glimpsed the dark and stormy landscape.

    Chaos and order alternated in my bleak soul, full of grief. A piercing funereal pain had gripped my entire essence.

    Intrusive thoughts and faded hopes crowded my mind as if they were unwelcome intruders, not invited by me.

    Joy and darkness unfolded like buds in my soul, becoming thorny briars that wounded my heart and tore apart my being.

    The bright sun, dethroned in the sky by great threatening and dark clouds in a midsummer storm, was no longer on my visual horizon, making me reflect on my bleak and mortal fate, which condemned me to a sense of perpetual anguish.

    It was as if I had lost the ability to express all that I felt in my heart, the most hidden secrets and concealed truths that I had never been able to reveal to any mortal.

    My fragility had become my only resource—my shattering into pieces and severing from the source of life, from every source of life—had made me like a dead flower in a solitary valley, where a majestic and deserted tower saw its reflection in a ridiculous, nearly nonexistent pond.

    My fragility had become my only resource—my shattering into pieces and severing from the source of life, from every source of life—had made me like a dead flower in a solitary valley, where a majestic and deserted tower saw its reflection in a ridiculous, nearly nonexistent pond.

    Mournful shadows ruled over me.
    They were the ones who decided my path and my fate.
    They were invisible, yet present—and immensely powerful.
    I felt like a doll, a puppet, at the mercy of their whimsical desires and decisions.

    And so I perished,
    by the hand of my own fears,
    by the hand of my own funeral anguish,
    And I became a mournful shadow myself,
    No different from the others.
    Elisabetta

  • An Enigma In the Twilight

    An Enigma In the Twilight

    An enigma in the twilight was before me,
    In a decaying and decadent dwelling
    where I fell into a deep slumber.

    The silence after the storm.
    That was all I could hear as I stared at the ceiling, decorated and inlaid with grotesque figures, cobwebs, and peeling paint.
    I was reflecting on my life and my dreams.
    It felt as though I was already inside one of my dreams, yet I could not be certain whether I was conscious or not.
    The pendulum clock could no longer offer that familiar chime that once marked the hours — and with them, time itself.
    The deafening silence had filled the entire mansion, whose walls were adorned with portraits that stared at me as if they wished to reveal secrets — or perhaps their memories.

    Was the enigma in the twilight merely a product of my imagination,
    Or could it be that this ancient and dilapidated place
    held enigmas my heart perceived as a potential object of interest —
    a heart now emptied of all the feelings it had carried through a lifetime,
    senselessly and heavily, like a tremendous burden?

    The only clock that marked the hour was an old timepiece,
    And it seemed to have stopped at exactly 22:22.
    The strange air of the mansion allowed the night to seep in
    With a peculiar glow that filtered through the curtains — thick, but not too thick.
    It was a house rich in memories and forgetfulness,
    in joys and grudges, in violence and death,
    in life and love, in ugliness and beauty,
    In magnificence and horror.

    Absorbed in my thoughts and lost in my memories,
    I fell into a state of deep melancholy and sadness,
    as if an abyss had swallowed me whole
    and forced me to live a life in a non-existent world
    of sorrow and ghostly recollections.
    Elisabetta

  • The Doomed Spell

    The Doomed Spell

    The doomed spell of the underworld was cast on me
    While I was wandering in my silent ways on a summer night
    Resentment and fear were far from me but the danger of death was following me
    Like an ominous shadow behind me
    Ready to decide when my end was going to happen

    And suddenly, like a storm in a clear sky, horror manifested itself before me.
    And, to all my fears, a bewitched and gigantic carriage, guided by a demon who struck blows upon his demonic horse with sharp teeth and a spectral gaze,
    a carriage populated by spectres, spirits and skeletons, all assembled as in a gathering.

    My long dress became soaked with mud and earth as I crossed this road of disgrace and death.
    And behold, the spectral coachman with his evil gaze headed directly towards my person to put an end to my existence, unleashing all his strength and aggressiveness and violence against me, and I almost perished — death brushed me, if it hadn’t been for a miraculous touch that diverted my figure from such horror.

    Shaken and bewildered, I relived the miracle of life, of rebirth, and it was there, in that fleeting and transient instant, that I was born again, assuming a new identity, even if my appearance had not quite changed — but my heart had become of bronze, copper and silver.

    The moon shone high in the night of storm and serenity, and the echo of my horror and of my spasms of fear and distress spread through all the firmament, making the stars hear my tale of misery and miracle.

    The doomed spell ruled over my mad destiny and had crumbled like a kind of majestic castle.
    It is splendid, but within it, my gloomy, shadowy soul was falling to pieces.
    And, filled with sorrows more than joys, it was crumbling apart under the weight of life — and of that night of nightmares and atrocities.
    Elisabetta

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