The Little Girl

By
A little girl about ‘3 foot 2’
Always wore a dress that was blue
She always smiled and at snack time she prayed

A preschool child so innocent and sweet
But yet this world is malicious and mean

The bruises would come and go on her face
We noticed them when her soft hair was put up in braids
She was absent a lot; sometimes days at a time

Coming back to school one day
She had a hurt arm and couldn’t play

The list of excuses grew so long, like a big stream of ribbon
We all knew she had a secret that was hidden
Her blue dress became tattered and torn
Like she had been thrown continuously into a bushel of thorns
The marks on her arms were often of handprints

Then she just stopped showing up
We had a letter sent to us, the girl had died
All because of her parents, too full of pride
Her wounds went deeper past her skin
Her daddy had taken her innocence from within
Now in the cemetery and angel stands, made of concrete
Her soul is now free in God’s hands





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