Spot (Poetry freestyle)

Each time the little girl came near the spot, she shifted.
Her mother was concerned and asked her why.
But each time the girl shrugged her shoulders and said nothing,
and the initial alarm passed with time by and by.

Each time the little girl was at the dinner table,
the spot would always be to her back.
When her mother asked about the seating arrangement,
the girl chimed it had always been like that.

One day when her mother tried to clean the spot,
the girl snatched the sponge and started to cry.
Her mom’s face remained contorted in confusion
until the little girl cried, “That’s where my brother died.”

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Poet, short story writer, and aspiring novelist. This blog details my writing journey and everything in between: supporting other writers, doing a feature column and serving as editor-in-chief for All Authors Magazine Online.

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