Esther Racah Writer & Literary Blogger

Tag: vigil

  • The Forsaken Lighthouse

    The Forsaken Lighthouse

    The forsaken lighthouse stood on a cliff,
    Where waves crashed below, and cold winds blew,
    Its beacon, once a guiding light,
    Now darkened by eternal night.

    The keeper’s ghost walked the stairs,
    His heart was a web of deep despairs,
    With each step, his sorrow increased,
    In the lighthouse, where no light glimmered.

    His love was lost to the sea’s embrace,
    A tragic time that could not have been erased,
    He waited for her on stormy nights,
    In shadows deep, beneath moonlight.

    The foghorn moans, a mournful sound,
    A cry for souls lost and unfound,
    The sea whispered tales of woe,
    Of lives claimed by its undertow.

    The lantern room, a silent tomb,
    Where once a flame cut through the gloom,
    Now dark and cold, it held his pain,
    In every drop of sorrow’s rain.

    He tended a lamp that never burned,
    In endless nights, his spirit yearned,
    For a return, a hopeless dream,
    In the lighthouse, where shadows screamed.

    The waves crashed hard against the rock,
    Their fury met with silent shock,
    His ghostly formed, a shade of silver,
    A heart that’s lost, a soul in the fray.

    The seagulls cried, a haunting plea,
    Above the dark, relentless sea,
    Their wings a blur against the sky,
    In mournful flight, they, too, must have died.

    The forsaken lighthouse lost forever its beacon’s glow,
    Besotted by the sorrow that ruled infamously,
    For in that tower, shadows dwelled,
    Of love lost to the ocean’s swell.

    Beneath the stars, his vigil kept,
    As tides rose high and darkness crept,
    The ghostly keeper, bound by fate,
    In sorrow’s grasp, he’d always have to wait.

    A presence in the mist so pale,
    A love-lorn ghost, a mournful tale,
    The forsaken lighthouse stood as a monument,
    To love and loss, forever spent,
    An unextinguished flame to the broken-hearted lost in the gale.
    Esther Elizabeth Racah

  • The Cursed Lighthouse

    The Cursed Lighthouse

    The cursed lighthouse stood up upon a cliff that stabbed the sky,
    The lighthouse stood in the wind and rain,
    Its beacon lost, its light gone dry,
    A relic cursed with endless pain.

    The waves below crashed cold and fierce,
    Their voices shrieking through the storm,
    The keeper’s cry, no soul to pierce,
    Echoes in the sea’s forlorn form.

    Its lantern room, now dark and bare,
    Once held the light to guide the lost,
    But now it waited in black despair,
    A beacon to the tempest’s cost.

    The keeper’s ghost still roamed the stairs,
    His footsteps echoed in the gale,
    A sorrowed man who knew the tales,
    Of mariners lost in the night’s labyrinth.

    The wind howled through the broken glasses,
    Its fury was tempered by regret,
    A haunting wail, a memory’s pass,
    Of lives lost to the sea’s dark bet.

    The foghorn’s moan, a mournful call,
    Rang out across the bitter sea,
    Yet no one heard its sorrowed fall,
    For all were lost to eternity.

    The cursed lighthouse stood, a spectral guard,
    It lights a memory of old,
    A curse upon its stones was marred,
    A tale of sorrow, dark and cold.

    And so it waited upon the cliff,
    To tell its tale through the tempest’s roar,
    A monument to those adrift,
    And the keeper’s soul always.

    The rain poured down in ghostly sheets,
    Its rhythm was lost in the ocean’s cry,
    The lighthouse wept as darkness met,
    The roiling waves that never died.

    Each lightning flash revealed the past,
    Of shipwrecked souls and broken dreams,
    Their voices lingered, shadows cast,
    In the storm’s relentless screams.

    The beacon’s light, once fierce and bright,
    Now, it faded into the tempest’s dread,
    A spectral glow in endless night,
    Where hope and light have been since dead.

    The keeper’s vigil never ended,
    His curse bound him to the storm,
    In waves and winds, his spirit wended,
    A haunting shape, forever mourned.

    Through mist and night, the story’s told,
    Of sorrow deep and spirits old.
    Esther Elizabeth Racah

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