Preforming Arts, a poem by Abhinav Aradhi

 

Performing Arts

Every day is a tragedy,

Acted out on Gaea’s cruel stage.

Curtains close on our cast,

Composed of all those who breathe.

 

Creativity runs amok in the theater.

It’s the only true method of acting,

Acting like every little issue is non-existent.

Acting like we’ve sold more than one ticket.

 

Lock yourself up in your dressing room,

Suffocate yourself with powdered beauty.

Put on your wig all awry,

Then run skelter to the stage.

 

This audience of one is quite fickle.

Who is that solitary watcher?

He might be a film critic,

Or a devil straight from Hades.

 

He’s jeering!

Hurry, set the stage!

Put on your poker faces,

And get ready to play.

 

Faux-pas smiles,

Fantastically fake frowns.

He yells from his dusty seat,

“What a poor production!”

 

All the cast freezes,

Overtaken by his critique.

They all faint, succumbing to Aphrodite’s neglect.

The curtain rolls close, and the critic leaves.