Esther Racah Writer & Literary Blogger

Tag: poetic monologue

  • Untitled Hearts

    Untitled Hearts

    Untitled hearts in dark and empty corridors in which echo indifference and the squalor of a disconnected life of fake feelings of idolised hypocrisies and fame earned by serving masters with monumental bank accounts.

    Untitled hearts in search of fake loves and vain glories without a true purpose without a glimmer of honesty and authenticity. When authenticity is falsified and served under false appearances, without any honesty, without any decency, like a plasticised body full of silicone and fillers.

    And so what is served to my eyes, on social media and in this society,
    are falsifications and delusional images of what is claimed to be — but is not.

    Fake loves are shouted obsessively on the web, with the famous phrases “I love you,” “I love you humanity,” or “I love you all,” with emoji hearts and exaggerated emotion behind.

    And here is the theatre, the show of shouted feelings,
    as if they were prices of products to be bought at the market,
    without any depth or foundation,
    without any decency,
    or the intention behind what is being said.

    Uttered lies echo in the emptiness of the web and they are served on a silver platter as a source of wisdom and knowledge. Deception is dearly sold at high prices as the only source of knowledge and information when it’s only falsity.

    Black suits usually marry breast implants and injected faces, making a living selling false values as worthwhile truths.

    And in the deepest nights, the echoes of my nightmares summon mortals dressed in filtered dreams and gilded delusions. Their tongues are laced with deceptive slogans, while their blind eyes strive to find company and love in plastic and squalor.

    I keep walking through the bleeding honesty and truth in a dying world of wicked and cynical mortals. And although my skin doesn’t include silicon or fillers, I carry my imperfections and weirdness in my own odd way. Forever.
    Lisa

  • 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.
    Lisa

  • The Mirror Of Memories And Secrets

    The Mirror Of Memories And Secrets

    The mirror of memories and secrets appeared before me, in one of my many dreams that wandered through my long, sleepless and tormented nights. In the darkness of night, in my chamber of solitude and desolation.

    My nocturnal refuge had become my prison,
    from which I could no longer escape. The tall windows, adorned with Gothic ornament and stained glass depicting scenes from a bygone age, stood like walls of glass between me and the outer world—a world I could no longer touch, no longer reach.

    The ancient piano gazed at me in astonishment as I sat absorbed in my thoughts, completely lost in the labyrinth of my visions. I could no longer recognise my own reflection in that great mirror of exquisite and delicate craftsmanship—yet its reflection seemed cast beneath a spell, the origin of which I could not fathom.

    Dressed in a majestic, cumbersome gown of purest white, I could no longer see my reflection in that mirror. It was as though it longed to reveal to me my true image—not the one to which I had grown accustomed. Silence carved deep furrows in my heart, making me understand that utter solitude was my destiny and my dwelling place.

    Engaging in a soliloquy, I hoped to summon spirits that might assist me in my transformation—into a new, intangible entity, ethereal, no longer made of matter. So I searched, with my gaze, for references, for remnants of the past that might help me find direction, but in the end I understood: I stood within a dark and unfamiliar realm, a place that filled me with fear and awe.

    If I had been granted the privilege of a common and ordinary existence—the kind that most mortals, or nearly all, are given with ease—with all its hopes, its chances, and the facilitations that I have never known, perhaps I would not have found myself in that realm of unwholesome madness and aberrant hallucinations that followed me through the shadowed corridors of that castle of illusions and decay, whose walls were soaked in tears, piercing sighs, and the dust of lives long gone.

    The mirror of memories and secrets in truth, was not there to keep me company, but to reveal to me my true essence—my soul, and the image of my heart, defaced and torn apart by pain, torment, disappointment, and betrayal. It was no ordinary mirror; it was a portal to another realm—the world of souls lost in oblivion and in the torpor of death. A world that seemed a deep, infinite abyss, where despair and sorrow, regret and the memory of the dead shone like stars—but stars of a darkened light.

    And in that very world I remained—no longer a prisoner, but a part of that abyss, of that darkness and dimmed light, for my heart had not ceased to beat, yet my soul had ceased to shine.
    Lisa

  • The Memories Of The Past

    The Memories Of The Past

    The memories of the past drag me into their swirling realm of despair.
    Alone, I find myself in a desolate place, a pit of the living dead—buried memories in the graveyard of my past. All I see are rows of lifeless trees.

    I pretend it is autumn, or perhaps winter, yet in truth this entire landscape is but a reflection of my dead and decaying soul.
    The darkness of the night does not frighten me—on the contrary, it is part of me. I am no longer who I once was; I have become a spirit of the night.

    The emptiness within me is filled with fears and regrets, and with all that I have lost unconditionally and irreversibly—things I shall never have again. And thus, the wreck of my existence: not only is it wretched, but also laden with pain.

    My cries of pain and my screams of despair are worth nothing. I have never been worth anything—only to wither my soul, already inscribed with daggers of disappointment and betrayals, inflicted by monstrous and mortally deplorable beings.

    All my crumpled desires and shattered dreams lie underground among the remnants of my memories and regrets. Left without emotions and left without words, I surrender to my nightmares, to my anguished obsessions that permeate my heart and tear it into a thousand pieces.

    My tormentors advance relentlessly, ready to tear me apart and destroy me in oblivion and forgetfulness. How much longer I must suffer, I do not know. I only know that cruel fate has entrusted me to the ship of the wretched and lost souls.

    The memories of my past haunt me insolently and give me no peace, and so I shall spend the eternity of my non-existence as a restless spirit.
    Lisa

  • Bound To A Spell Of Death

    Bound To A Spell Of Death

    Bound to a spell of death
    Condemned to feel the poundage of my grief
    Grief that manifested each day deep inside my heart
    Using memories to pierce my heart and let me languish

    I knew not what I was expecting behind the doorway of my fate
    The uncertainty and fears cloaked me in a dark
    veil
    I couldn’t see anything beyond my sight of discernment
    Since I was a prisoner of my own thoughts

    Bound to a spell of death
    I wandered in the wilderness of my nightmares
    Getting lost so many times that I embraced my disorientation
    Chaos and madness were manifestations of my true self

    My passions set my heart ablaze
    An inextinguishable flame burning in silence
    While the luminaries watched in silence
    I confessed my secret desire, a forbidden desire

    I couldn’t find any delight in my existence
    As if joy itself were always out of reach for me
    And solace was forbidden to a soulless creature like myself
    Since my birth, my body has been pierced by poisoned daggers

    I was bruised and my wounds bled blood and submission
    I came to the edges of the abyss of death
    I saw my life wither and decay to dust
    And I became a part of that underworld

    I felt a serpentine ivy chain me to a throne of decadence
    I was a captive in the dungeon of misery and destruction
    I drank from the goblet of oblivion and I forgot all my memories
    The devastation of my soul was irreversible

    The stars seemed to collapse in the darkness
    While thunders ruled the kingdom of the night sky
    Clouds swirled like ancient ghosts around my head
    And the wind howled secrets no creature could bear the sound

    I sat on my throne as a queen of shadows and decay
    The deafening silence surrounded me
    Hissing spectres crowned my dungeon made of sorrow
    A wicked destiny had cast an enchantment over me that I could no longer break
    I was eternally bound to a spell of death.
    Elisabetta

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