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Skipped Beats

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Little tiny moments,

Those insignificant nothings.

What purpose do they leave

Such mere seconds of the day?

Who would even notice

If those seconds had a substance.

Should each beat be kept under siege?

Which trifles serve to slip away?

But what good comes from lack of focus

A disregard for labeled nothings?

That grow like larvae into locusts

And might turn into something?

Never stretch those petty gaps

Into piled waste that trails the past.





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