Today I’m switching it up quite a bit here at The Chicago Files. I have written a poem about a lovely woman who has recollection of her early days as a ‘flapper’ in the 1920s. However, what appears as real might not necessarily be the case. I do hope you enjoy it!
Antiquated memories masquerade as authentic,
Void of fragmented truth in their essence,
Faded glimpses of grandeur captured,
Without inquisition of their sensibility,
Poised and perched on well-worn wood,
Darkened silence beckons the first step,
Metamorphose precludes the showering of adulation,
Rising curtain; spotlight brings luminosity to its awaiting artist,
Enrobed in sequins; scalloped hem with fringe-laden folds,
Golden heels tracing imaginary circles,
Rhythmic tapping intertwined alongside the melodic air,
Arms flapping wildly, shaking sequins amidst the forgotten innocence,
Moving with fervor,
Releasing of flickering shadows cast against a hand-painted backdrop,
Spellbound patrons with unbroken glares,
Erupt into roaring laudation,
Only to be disrupted by the rude awakening,
That memories of glory days,
Are captured more often than not,
By the echos of a past lived,
Within made-up memories of a regretful, melancholy mind.
The Chicago Files 