The weaver’s grip blotted beneath the twilight’s fading wind,
Where shadows crept, and twilight waned,
The threads of fate entwined with death,
And bound mortals fast in iron chains.
The mansion stood tall in cold decay,
Its halls whispered of lost despair,
Each step a dirge, each stone a grave,
The spectre’s voice was in the air.
Through shattered panes, the wind did moan,
A cry that chilled the very bone,
It beckoner all to face their doom,
And follow to the dark unknown.
A figure draped in sable mist,
Emerged from the profound gloom,
Its fingers twisted with cruel intent,
As threads of fate enwrapped the ground.
“You cannot flee; you cannot hide,”
It whispered low, a hollow tone,
“For every path shall soon collide,
And meet beneath my wretched throne.”
The graves beyond the mansion’s gate,
Stood sentinel in spectral rows,
Their names erased, their fates long sealed,
By hands, no mortal ever knew.
For here, where fate and death entwined,
No plea for mercy shall be heard,
The weaver’s grip was tight and soft,
Its loom of darkness was undeterred.
Each soul was bound by slender strands,
That guided them to their silent rest,
The labyrinth of life’s decrees,
Converged in the heart’s unrest.
The fog thickened, the moon grew pale,
The atmosphere rose hefty with despair,
The mansion faded, a fleeting veil,
And all was lost within its snare.
Indeed, those spirits who walk alone must heed,
The weaver’s grip will find them ready to be misled,
For fate’s embrace is carved in stone,
And none may stay unchanged, forever alone.
Esther Elizabeth Racah
