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
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Author:
Tristan Robert Lange (
Offline) - Published: October 22nd, 2025 08:36
- Comment from author about the poem: This poem debuts my composite form, The Globe’s Stage—a five-act structure built from five distinct sonnet types. Each act descends further into collapse, transforming the sonnet itself into a stage where light fades, order fractures, and the performance becomes its own elegy. Inspired by the five-act structure of Shakespearean drama, The Globe’s Stage also introduces a new sonnet form—the Ghost Sonnet—a phantom echo of the Shakespearean sonnet. Though set in a collapsing theater, this piece stages the experience of Seasonal Affective Disorder—where each act mirrors light’s withdrawal and the mind’s slow descent into winter.
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 8
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Comments4
Like acts in a play stages of mood also end and begin. A poem with many levels of metaphor. It is nicely broken into five acts and as a play speaks the the voice of one view, as a metaphor with another. Well done my friend
Soren, my friend… yes, exactly...the mood and the play collapse together, scene by scene. You caught the dual voice: performance and confession entwined. I hoped that would come through. Thank you my friend. I truly appreciate you. 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
Always most welcome Tristan
Good write T. I know The Theatre of Popeye. Oh, what themes do they have? What sort of plays? people ask us. We can't answer that, except to say there is always the theme of spinach included! lol 🙂
Hahaha! Orchi, you slay me...The Theatre of Popeye sounds like just the place for this lot. Popeyeus Glug Maxiumus Solus in the starring role, Ol’ Tom hiding in the orchestra pit, and Obi trying to explain the plot through sign sabering (It's a thing evidently). A spinach tragedy for the ages! 😂🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
Too late now - I'm coming back for a reread tomorrow, Tristan.
Once upon a time I worked in theatre (London West End) but never to tread the boards - I kept well behind the scenery or above it. However I'm sure there are players, actors who could relate very well to your work here, complex structure or not.
Rich imagery which was richly enjoyed, Tristan.
Dave, coming from someone who’s lived backstage in the West End, your words mean more than applause. You know how the curtain breathes, how ghosts linger in rafters. I love theatre...and I am really glad this delivered and, certainly , more so than just in craft. Thank you, my friend. 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
Thank you for both your visits, btw. I saw your first earlier, but was super busy and figured I would get on in time to tell you "no rush", but you beat me back here! LOL! Thanks again, mate!
One of my positions in one of the theatres I worked in was junior member of the electrics dept. It was my task, at end of show, empty theatre except for the doorman to make my way from stage up this large Victorian theatre through secret passageways to above the ceiling where I lowered a large light through a hatch for the cleaners the following morning and then bolted out of there. Woooo….
Dearest Tristan you took the time to write something so effortlessly beautiful and it’s very well written. Definite inspirational words and work of art here 🥂🥂🥂❤️🤴
Thank you, dearest Keyara…you always read with such grace. If this poem was my stage, your words are the applause that still echoes after the lights fade. I raise my glass right back to you, my friend. 🥂❤️🌹🖤🙏
Your very welcome Tristan 👏🏻, and its a def shooting my 🥂 glass full on toasting to you ✨✨✨💯
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