A life hanging by a thread with no past or future,
When shadows faded and time was erased,
There was only a single thread,
Thin like the whisper of a ghost.
The walls, once festive with tales untold,
Now stood in silence, stark and cold.
The echoes of a life no more,
Had faded to a tale sold.
The thread, a spectral strand so thin,
Had dangled from the ceiling’s rim.
Its gossamer shimmer, pale and dim,
Had captured life’s last, trembling whim.
Each corner of that haunted space
Had held a shadow’s dark embrace.
Old portraits watched with a mournful face,
As time had slowed its frenzied pace.
The thread, in quiet desperation,
Had struggled with its own vibration.
It quivered with a deep frustration,
A symbol of a lost vocation.
The wind, a cold and distant sigh,
Had tugged at the thread that hung so high.
It whispered of a life awry,
And dreams that flitted by the sky.
With every gust, the thread would sway,
As if to lead some soul astray.
A life once vivid and bright, each day,
Had dulled to grey and drifted away.
In that forsaken, dim-lit chamber,
Where silence spoke in spectral gloom,
The thread had drawn its final loom,
And sealed a fate of darkened doom.
The moment came, the thread had snapped,
A life once held was gently trapped.
In shadows deep, it had been wrapped,
And faded to a void, unapt.
In the end, the thread had ceased,
And with it, all that had once increased.
A life had hung, its tension released,
And drifted to the past, now peacefully deceased.
The air grew thick with faint whispers,
Of lives once lived, now lost, so plaint.
The final breath had left its taint,
And shadows mourned the thread’s restraint.
Esther Elizabeth Racah
