I’m sure Norma Desmond was a Leo like me.
Us with our great expectations.
We even have the same taste for narcissism,
Both of us like instantiations of Miss Havisham,
Benefactors of our own demise – like hubris,
It is our pride which makes us replace mirrors with screens,
Replaying a loop of those incunabular pictures,
While outside gardens overgrow and nature proceeds.
The camera murders us and we die an early death,
Spending our lifetime mourning to relive it.
We stay young as we grow old,
So arrogant, so sentimental, so naive.
We stare at the pond but its a false reflection,
One which is controlled by passiest inclinations.
We love ourselves so much in fear that no one else can love us,
Eating our own hearts through self-cannibalism,
A defense mechanism – we leave none for others.
