Slithering subtlety, the serpent saw a shard shaped slightly like his self.  
He gazed into the glass, seeing a reflection.
"What beautiful feathers I have!", he said covered in scales.  "What beautiful colors--- and wow!  Look at my wings!"
He mused to himself, (it's no wonder I soared so much higher than the others...They had no wings!  No illustrious feathers!  They only have scales, that's why they're different than me!  They not like myself, or other birds that I see).

He slithered sedated and satisfied with a sullen, sad and insecure of sense self under surface.
Along the way he spotted a Gold Parakeet, he compared himself and said this through his teeth: "Your scales are ugly, and cracked, and dull.  You slither with your wings from trees very tall.  Why can't you fly, and be bright like me?  You're unable, and there's something wrong with you, all the other birds agree."
The parakeet parried the poisonous paragraph perfectly:
"When you see me, you see what you want.  You attack what I am because I have what you flaunt.  But I soar high, while your words sink low.  One day you'll be measured by the scales you show."
The parakeet pondered puzzled at the python's reply:
"I see only the reflection of the glass I passed by."

To love is to give every
ounce of yourself to
her in word and deed.

To love is to ride the
wave of a chaotic sea,
to crash and froth
against the cliffs,
edges jagged and strewn
with large rocks.

To love is to coast on
and tread the gentle
currents, while the orange
glow of a serene late day
sun casts himself benevolently
on the sea, and the shores she kisses.

For it to end is
for sound to seem faded
and taste to be bland.

In this death there
is no mourning...
only the cold hollow
chill of a winter night...
still... windless...indifferent
as the moon's shallow light.