to you whom i hold near —
you've yet to receive my heart
each beat is ridden with your name
writhing, bursting in pain
that is to be without your gaze
though you have mine in all your days

to you whom i hold high —
do you feel the breeze i've yet to feel?
how does it feel to be loved for nought,
but for and from all i've got?
you float, but i keep the line taut
allow me this — to fly, you cannot

They said,
"The most beautiful art is
looking into someone's eyes
when they talk about the
things they love."
And I said,
"Or looking at someone you love.
Or maybe, just maybe,
by looking at the mirror
is the most beautiful art
anyone should appreciate."

Who will remember us,
or is it not infinitely
more important that
we come to know our
real selves? Statues,
whether marble or steel,
will whither away in time
or be pulled down by those
who come to see misdeed
from magnanimity. In Cosmos,
only the real self is everlasting.

TOD HOWARD HAWKS

His flawless facade veiled his private malignity, your sultry devil in sheep’s clothing.