Cusp of Power

Wide eyed, helpless he gazed through his new mother’s entranced steel-grey orbs. The cosmos mirrored in the sacred water on this Samhain night, bathed in magically majestic blood moon. Reflected as it was in both their souls; ripples through stars, each one a gift. A single birth and death on the very cusp of the veil, a perfect way to live forever. Thought the power-hungry young witch.

Laoghaire’s meticulous scheme to dispatch and consume the making of her body, radiant new life, was in veracious ritual motion, void emotion. Mothers natural selection.

The tiny infants body wriggled, gagged and choked; crystal fresh water, stars and planets rushed down his throat. The deep iridescent fairy pool of sparkling emeralds consumed new life with the boundless universe. Laoghaire’s fevered eyes drank in every detail of her secret sacred bairn.

An exchange with the realms of darkness, immaculate life for multifarious transcendent power.

© Natasha Sinclair. 2019.

Lost Shadows: A collection…

My first mini collection has been published and is now live. Paperback and eBook available worldwide.

Link below.

Out of Colour

She was so incredibly vibrant, effervescent even. Life cascaded over her and she soaked it up; osmosis from grey to all illuminating colour.

They couldn’t know of the tortured girl hiding behind long straggly hair in the corner depths of her soul. Trying not to breathe, holding her head still between her hands and knees; frightened little anchoress within.

She painted the outside with hypnotic kaleidoscopic colour. Energy was electrifying and luminescent. Rich from living, a friend to everyone, my love.

After the years of youth though; too much mayhem and noise, too much of that painted face. Too many troubles to keep buried behind a smile, she ran all out of colour.

I see her try sometimes. Try to paint it on. Her skin only soaks it into the dead grey; cracking, peeling, painful and raw. Hermit grey, only shade in the shadows.

There’s barely any precious life left.

(C) Natasha Sinclair, All rights reserved

“Just One More”

Early flight; foreign daze too bright.
Night draws with a bang.
Curtains closed, skirts up.
Old streets buzz with pimps and cheats .
Sex in the air; for a fair fare.
Her tired mouth, his wallet.
A classy bar, a sleazy toilet.
Part of the play, trip away.
Any old dud feels like a stud.
Pussy on the wind.
Setting up for good grind.
Getting low so you can’t go.
She lays her head to rest.
Holiday urge starts to spread.
He pushed her ‘til she was sunned down.
“Just one more."
Pretends he's not off to score.
Whore behind another door.
Sleepy head all tore with gore.
Slips in hours too late...
Stinking and slick from a professional date.
“Just one more,” he said.
Wet with mixed sweat.
A foreign scent had him spent.
Deceit on the forgotten receipt.
Deceit cheat never sleeps.
It’s always just one more…
Score.

© Natasha Sinclair 2019