Treading on egoshells

Men's egos like eggshells
crunch easy underfoot.
And we for holy charity
Pick up the sharp shards
to eek new eggs,
though thereby
they and we
are changed.

Changed, not ended,
Never quite mended;
The bigness of our boots
A bumbling humbling
Every time we take
a step forward
and two steps back.

And even in reverse gear
More egos are broken
In the making of the great omelette.

So I'll tread more softly
next time ...


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