Effervescent phrases fill the air, while
jovial remarks languish at the edge of pretense,
and the din, the rising vortex of mirthful cacophony,
ebbs to a trickle of full-hearted speechless sighs,
as she, queen of all glamour
enters in a halo of snapping flashes.
A pregnant silence ensues,
as all in awe of beauty’s presence, subsides the rumble,
and her beguiling form does take the room by storm,
a value far exceeding reason,
a fame, an enamored soul in angel realms,
here, manifest in mortal pretension.
Then, as if to know the pause relent,
camera’s, like bustling shoppers attack
from right and left,
and she, in overdrive pouts and prances,
striking poses for every vantage,
and the crowd gathers, with ohs and ahs, eyes a twinkle.
And who can tell in adoration’s frenzy,
what this fracas is, souls all lost their minds,
for an image, a delusion of profound kind,
no more important than a glimmered star,
a unreal being of invention,
a cardboard cut-out, a human painting marred.
The Diva struts and frolics in this meadow of human blossoms,
bending together in the gentle breeze of mesmeric vow,
and she knows all too well this lie is fleeting,
and so she takes all it offers, and plays her given lines,
the dream since childhood,
a momentary pleasure avowed.