Pounding heart symbolizes confusion,
throbbing head lost in mist of soft music,
reminding me of years ago, fusion
of my skin with her skin, flesh mosaic
a sculpture of our passion. How tender
she was, how lonely, sad secret daughter
of a movie legend. Why she rendered
her real name gently to me, only her
hidden psyche can say. She was 80
and it was the ’80s. I, half her age,
can never explain how her black-pearl eyes
hypnotized, made us timeless, our homage
to lovers throughout centuries, our days
lost to her failing heartbeat and malaise.
Roger Armbrust
February 12, 2010
