Smaller End (is still an end).

One cannot see the sky through the clouds,

something along those lines.

The details have you so caught up,

small doses, small issues, small crimes.

The masterpiece is ever unfolding,

culling down the seed that spurns.

Till the vine turns on its own fruits,

and the chaff avoids the burn.

It’s so easy to turn the faces,

from this way to the other.

And finally civil is in the wrong,

where cracking eggs will kill another.

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