Reluctant Reaper

Rolling rumbling tumbling of the muscle
Steadfast working out the dead

Waiting through waves
Expulsion from womb to world; inner-outer dimension switch

Existence given visibility
Life unviable; dead tangible

The ticking clock veiled agony; pulse-quickening within the neck
Swimming through minutes in viscous shards; stark, exposed in wait

A sudden burst to cemetery-serene-silence
Shock of expectations met, tension swells and pops within the void

Her body expelled, revealed
Limp, still, disturbingly perfect

Few eyes lay upon her — none with such desperate thirst as the child-loss-mother
Tattooing details to memory
Cerebral and uterine imprints
Memories outlived instantaneously

Tiny fingers, toes, torso, fused eyes, jaw, ears…
All except the beating of the heart
Virgin lungs void of air in this, her death hours stare

My pathetic heart beats so hard it chokes the throat
The muscle has pried itself from within its cage, making way up to swell in the gullet

Don’t take her away…
Emotion sickness swells drowning from the inside
Even dead, she’s still the baby; even dead, she’s my baby, still

Must give her honour of life…somehow
Gemini mother; creator, reluctant reaper

Now her death feeds life
Entangled in root tendrils within the earth
Forever reaching within and upward

The true heart of something that doesn’t have to beat
Her cycles visibly viable

Bleary eyes can’t always see their praise of stars
Despair wracked the heart for a time

Peace isn’t only for the dead…

She sways in the wind now; dancing grace
Energy shared, scattered through leaves and bellies of beasts
She worms and she soars through them

Not the life imagined; energy shifted, realigned
Heart-wrenching, gut-punching beautiful

Death Born Still — Lives

© Natasha Sinclair 2020

Written on reflection during ‘The Wave of Light’ 15th October 2020.

Frozen Slack Still

A daughter held him, frozen.
Imitation of new dead still; only air flowing through functioning lungs.
Numb dumb in thought, inaction.
Painfilled love for this new grieving orphan.
The fallen favourite of a Mothers beloved brood.
There would be none of us had she not been; none of his Fatherhood.
A tangled barbed root from which we each came.
Some blessing amongst much insane.
Now there she lay, dead in a bed; frozen slack still.
An empty shell; once wishing well.
Dead in a bed, not even her own.
Eyes pouring in great damming floods; others uncomfortably dry as desert bone.
Through strangers’ hands she passes, between arctic fridges of steel.
Upon the final spin of the great Mothers wheel; scions on the side-lines awaiting the final reveal.
Embalmed, freshly robed in white; encased as a doll in her satin lined box.
A gift to the soil never to spoil.

© Natasha Sinclair

New Free Short Story

Sharing with you a new short, free, here on my site!

Check out ‘Unicorn’ via the new ‘Short Stories’ menu. Enjoy!

https://clanwitch.home.blog/short-stories/unicorn/

Lost Shadows: A collection…

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

Link below.

‘Lost Shadows’ – Cover Reveal

Small poetry collection being released very soon, currently just awaiting the printed proof for final review before it goes live!

“This is a small eclectic collection from an Independent Scottish writer.

If you’re looking for inspirational poetry, words of deep wisdom, even good poetry, this book is probably not for you.

The contents are inspired by various topics including; mental ill health, relationships, lust, consumerism, commercialisation, veganism, family, death, politics and history.

While this collection is admittedly somewhat disjointed, it is also truly organic.”

Summer Sale

These two eBooks are 50% Off throughout July from Smashwords!

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/881522

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/914414

Snapped

Laying the last body down on the bed, I studied them both, side by side. My beautiful loyal white pups. They looked as if they were peacefully sleeping. Dreaming still. You’d never know by this sight that I had snapped their necks. Still warm, the serenity of death. My wrist hurt. It was almost over now. There was nothing left to hold me back. I stepped up on to the vintage blue weaved wooden stool. Reaching above I put the prepared noose over my head to my neck and jump forward. Swinging and choking, why didn’t my neck just snap?

©Natasha Sinclair

Alarm

The obnoxious screeching tore through consciousness, wrenching from some distant dreamy place. One far more appealing than this. 6:00am screamed as heavy eyes flew startled open, red and dry. The Dead arm fought to shut that raging thing up. Fucking 6:00am!

Quiet now but that wasn’t to last, it never did. Soon I’d hear the echoes of other bellowing alarms chasing other slaves from sleep. Got to get the magic paper or the idea of it anyway. Pay service to the authorities, whoever the hell they were and contribute! To what, I don’t really know.

It’s all lies…

Lies that we follow almost mindlessly if not completely. Following until there’s nothing left.

I had only been sleeping two hours if I was lucky. Less in fact, I recall 4:00am, as I always do, so definitely not the round two. Desperately trying to empty my stupid head on to scrap pieces by my sunken bed. Open door at four. Evacuating this mad racket noise so I could sleep. The paper was completely drenched in scrawlings that made perfect sense at the time. Now appeared as if they were written by some foreign ghost. It was me though, it’s always just me. Even with the ghosts clambering and scratching at my exhausted soul, they couldn’t tell what was what. Scrambling for desperate scraps, something to cling to, or let go of. They weren’t the only ones. At least they were dead.

I never sleep enough, never was programmed for the job. Maybe that’s what came of all that screaming in the night or was just some missed connection before even then. It’s harder for this mind to shut up when everything else does. So much echo within echo bouncing off metal over and over again.

When will the 6:00am screeching be done with me? Maybe one day Death will cast her final shadow before it starts. Stuck for an eternity in that dreamy place before the alarm excitedly bellows; a surprise whip lashing my back raw. That will surely be more than two round hours…

Or I’ll be stuck somewhere else, scratching at your soul…

I hate alarms.

(C) Natasha Sinclair, all rights reserved