Tristan Robert Lange
The Theatre of Dying Light
ACT I, The Spotlight Falters.
We took the sunny stage one summer day—
The weather, like a siren call, my lure—
It was so mild, very joyous, and gay.
So we played—our act confident and sure.
Yet, as the play went on some things ‘came queer,
Which took our stride, wobbled it up and some.
The damned lights became dimmed—no longer clear—
Our makeup cracked, began to run—so glum.
Shadows then began to replace the light—
The great applause began to really thin—
Our once romantic drama now a fright,
A spider with a sticky web to spin.
No matter the effort—how hard we try—
We can’t prevent downfall so we cry.
ACT II, The Mirror Cracks.
I sit here alone in my dressing room,
Awaiting my character’s reentry.
Nerves twist and freeze as frost turns room to tomb,
The mirror before me a harsh sentry.
How am I to play an elite gentry
When my face is fine, fractured, porcelain?
My mask, neither comic nor tragedy,
Much to the audiences scoured chagrin.
About to run out on stage to begin,
The theatre now a snow globe of ice—
My nerves crack like shin shards—betrays my grin,
Stuck there on a mannequin like a vice.
A tragic hero who’s now the jester,
As the melancholy starts to fester.
ACT III, No Intermission.
For my own part, my words flow with real ease,
Spoken with conviction—my actor’s flair—
But then everything slows down to a stare,
Real long and awkward, like checking for fleas,
The crowd locked in despair—filled with disease—
Frostbitten flesh, blood stained and unaware,
Stripped of excitement, joy and even care,
The whole lot with an awful fate to share.
The monotony of words weigh me down—
The players like putz figures in the snow,
Stuck in one spot with no lines left to speak.
There I stand center stage—a frozen clown—
Lethargic and motionless, out of flow.
Lips locked tight, encased in ice—blood-specked cheek.
ACT IV, The Hollow Stage.
The stage sits hollow, empty as a hole—
Snow covers it like a forgotten tomb—
Theatre and its now abandoned goal.
No chance for theatrics to hum.
A cold, lumious light on a dark stage
Shows nothing more than snow
Squalling down with swift surrender
As if a storm were the only sh...
There used to be energy...
Players used to dance and sing
With joy...not now...sorrow.
A haunt...hindered...hurt.
Go. Just go.
No show.
ACT V, The Curtain Falls.
The phantom light begins its final fade,
The seats filled with hollowed shells but no souls
Any spirit that once roared now forbade.
A haunted theatre with no more roles.
The music is no more than memory,
The lines ring out only in ghosts’ lone minds,
The doors have been bolted—lost reverie—
The box office closed. Windows shut with blinds.
The curtain has dropped—nay!—it has fallen.
Even as seasons change, no hope remains.
There are no more acts, no voices callin’,
Nothing left in here but unfettered pains.
Once the cold darkness took the sun away,
The portents were known: death was here to stay.
© 2025 Tristan Robert Lange. All rights reserved
First published on tristanrobertlange.com, October 22, 2025.
Tittu