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
She’s a tease.
The femme fatale disease.
Gaming with sultry eyes surprise.
Rose lips of fast lies.
Moaning ecstasy in sweet cries.
Throbbing sex lullabies.
She’s a tease to best please.
No sad begging of cheap release.
Call her out, she’ll flagrantly deny.
No longer look you in the eye.
© Natasha Sinclair
“I wouldn’t piss on one if he was on fire.”
She hissed with such venom on each syllable.
That hate was imbedded deep; Men, what was the issue?
Those women married them, bore children to them, birthed them, raised them…
Copulators and mothers of abusive bastards.
Of course, it was her fault. It always was, that doomed double XX.
Such hate being passed through generations.
The kind of hate that rose your heart rate, made your bones grind, made you sweat.
Venomous and bitter more than mere words; the flames licked the air in forked tongue.
Man’s kiss; woman’s curse.
(C) Natasha Sinclair, all rights reserved