Esther Racah Writer & Literary Blogger

Tag: Mystical Realms

  • 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

  • The Magic Library

    The Magic Library

    The magic library stood in the midst of the forest,
    Where shadows converged and time seemed to merge.
    Books whispered secrets in the dim candlelight,
    Pages turned by themselves in the depth of the night.

    The shelves groaned with volumes bound in dark leather,
    Their titles were elusive, shifting like the weather.
    Silent phantoms glided silently by,
    Their hollow eyes gleamed, no longer alive.

    Each book was a portal to realms far and wide,
    To curses and blessings that destinies guided.
    A tome with gold letters “Fates Intertwined,”
    Its tale was too unsettling for the timid souls.

    A dusty old grimoire with a clasp rusted shut,
    Unlocked with a whisper, a soft, secret cut.
    It spoke of enchantments, of magic once pure,
    Twisted by darkness and shadows that lured.

    A wanderer ventured into this spectral lair,
    Drawn by the stories that whispered of despair.
    A book of forgotten lore was opened,
    And vanished at once, the mystery deepened.

    The magic library under the moonlight,
    A realm of dark and magic tales took flight.
    Wandering aisles, where shadows convened,
    Whispers of secrets in every scene.

    The allure of this magical place,
    Where stories entangled and time had no trace.
    The magic library was wondrous and dreadful,
    It was a portal to lands that spirits found delightful.

    Within its vast halls, secrets long lay,
    Hidden in tomes with covers of decay.
    A volume of prophecies, bound in red,
    Spoke of a future where all hopes were dead.

    Some shadow once dared to decipher its stones,
    Seeking the knowledge that within it shone.
    But the words twisted, morphed, and blurred,
    Until sanity was no longer assured.

    Those who strolled into the magic library went lost and confused,
    By the magic and curses, the volumes were infused.
    Its whispers joined a spectral refrain,
    A cautionary tale of knowledge and pain.

    The magic library with its obscure corners, where shadows loomed thick,
    And ghosts lingered, bound by fate’s cruel trick.
    They sought wisdom, power, and truth,
    But found only madness trapped in their booth.

    The candles flickered, casting an eerie glow,
    On the grimace of those who no longer could show,
    Whether they lived or simply existed,
    In the magic library’s grasp, where time persisted.

    Brave adventurers with hearts full of fire,
    Accessed the spellbinding vault, led by desire.
    They sought out a legend, a tale of gold,
    Of riches and treasures, of secrets untold.

    They opened a chest with arcane symbols,
    Unleashed a force, they could not refrain.
    The shadows engulfed them, wrapped them tight,
    Leaving behind sighs in the pale moonlight.

    The forest grew still, the library suspended,
    Content with the stories of those who had strived.
    For in its dark heart, it harboured a truth:
    Knowledge is power, but often aloof.

    The magic library of days long past,
    Where ghouls were forever cast.
    For the magic it held was both wondrous and dire,
    A balance of wisdom and consuming fire.
    Esther Elizabeth Racah

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