by Rhea Khandhar

A melancholy gathering,

A weeping assembly,

Crowded in the grim theatre to weep and wail

Their twinkling tears of blue and gold,

To observe the mourning spectacle,

A show that grieves a scathing loss,

A ritual that alleviates its crestfallen beholders,

The anticipating audience awaited the prime entrance

Of the famed performer- Lady Tegrre.

The curtain of erythraean fell upon the stage,

Blanketing the upcoming display from the peering eyes,

Protecting and sheltering the hidden back

Where the Lady herself stayed refuge

Afront the mirror she stood,

Opposed by her virtual clone on the shining plane,

She caressed her moon-like face

Bald, empty and porcelain in shade,

On her head she draped a graceful black veil,

That tried so desperately to hide the blank

The last touch to her signature came next,

Eloquently and delicately weaved,

A lengthy shawl sewn of dainty slivers

Heartstrings of those whose hearts she purloined

The shawl flowed from her neck,

It was a stream of liquid pearl

Her form was now truly complete

Fully decorated and spectacle-ready,

The wailing crowd awaited,

For Lady Tegrre would grace their presence

The blood-blanket that shielded the stage curled,

Ceasing to conceal what it once hid,

It revealed but a simple set,

A plain backdrop of sombre white,

Decorated by Lady Tegrre alone,

Wrapped by her flurry, ravenous ensemble,

Tresses of light, ink-black cloth fluttered and flowed,

Lined with iridescent strips of aureate

The veil overlay her blank, pallid face,

Her gaze evoking more metallic tear streams,

The rivers that streaked from the eyes of the audience,

The tears of gold and molten sapphire,

They intensely poured from the eyes,

Beholding the view of the grim, faceless woman,

They sought to see her perform

Swirling grey clouds tangled skywards,

Visible from the open theater,

They almost acted in accordance to the show,

For they twisted and twined as the music commenced

The sharp strings of higher pitch serenaded,

They squealed and belted their whimsical melodies,

To welcome the rich voice of the lady upstage,
The notes and melodies built up,

A theatrical harmony of string and brass,

Glorious but not ostentatious,

A wall of increasing tightness it built,

Awaiting the wrecking ball of voice

To tear it down to seraphic rubble,

The weapon of voice never befell,

As Lady Tegrre hadn't it possessed,

She had no mouth to speak of,

For her head was a mere absent ball

Yet the beholders continued to cheer and weep,

Their rich lustrous tears further tearing down their faces,

As Lady Tegrre stood affront,

Speechless and expression-void,

The tension of song had surpassed drama,

It was now a mess of desperate siren

From the stage top puppets fell,

Tied above not with rope or string,

But with frigid loops of metal chain,

They clinked and clanked with their ominous dance,

Their actions followed the Lady’s in verbatim,

These puppets were the caricatures of one once alive,

The one of who the assembly mourned,

Sobs and cries intensified in volume-

The tears were no longer a mix gold and blue

They were only the deepest of azure,

Eyes from the beholders were at this point tear-burned,

Red from all the strain and sorrow

The ash skies above thickened,

The clouds pressed into each other,

Twirling and creeping between one another,

The dance of the marionettes intensified,

The movements aggressive and hostile,

Edging front to the viewers below

The gloom above cracked and fell,

The sky above began to weep,

To tear apart the slithering clouds,

To watch them plummet to the ground,

Observing them break to mere drops,

As they poured and sprayed the scene below,

The tears of sleep fell on the crowd,

Coursing from the airspace up,

The members of the crowd began to drowse,

Helpless and frail from the rain,

The chain bound puppets then rejoiced,

The droplets of sleep whisked the beholders away,

To a vulnerable state of repose,

Where they could not retaliate

The bloodthirsty caricatures bounced,

Retrieving the hearts of the fallen folk,

To Lady Tegrre they were brought

For she them would meticulously split,

To rob them of their rosy heartstrings,

These heartstrings she’d professionally string

Into the scarf that draped around her neck,

The snake of pale salmon that dropped down her dress,

For her to adorn with every next performance,

For her to lengthen over time,

As Lady Tegrre would resume

Her act of thieving the many hearts,

The many hearts of her audience beholders,

Whose hearts would soon to be

Part of the tenebrous ensemble she flaunts



Rhea Khandhar is a new, young writer who enjoys writing about surreal concepts, consistently focusing on symbols and meaning in their art, which would be arguably quite apparent given that they've written the poem 'Lady Tegrre'. At the moment, they are a relatively new author.

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