Biding time until reaper's weepers dispersed The mourning departed to spread grief song I linger until silence befell cemetery gates Beyond the ceremonial bound In observance Solitary silence Spiritual widow I’ve waited… Making way across the damp green Souls stick in the mud sinking Making my way to you One last time Love out of sight Residing now on opposing dimensions Held in the brevity of penumbra Lovestruck in shadow Your dark spell, loves curse By the mound afore you I stare into your pit Imagining the pits of your eyes behind the box Pondering the transparency of your boxes of fabrication Heart-shaped carpentry, weak to these sorrowful eyes My love on a fine line Kneeling with my hands in your mud bed I climb into your grave Lay atop of your box poured with flowers you hate Deep in the hole upon my loves burial bed Breathing in the fumes of your death Feeling deaths whispers swarm my head Love eternally buried in me Beyond the finite blood and bone Can you feel the heat penetrate your cold corpse? I lie in your pit Widow death shroud On top of my love… One last time © Natasha Sinclair
Gnashing and gnawing at my innards
Viscera shredded; trauma tombs embedded
Stitch in bells, weigh down the nauseating flapping
Jangle a euphonious jingle
Steady placement of chinked shield
There my guilt brims
Shame for wishing away rapid cell division
Liquor and voluntary scalding
Natures way away
Life folding poured out
Out of Order; terror of disorder
For two, a freshly dug hole
The morning after
Nipping at heals with the snow
A hollow in another garden
There, a piece of my heart lays
A depression for my first’s succession
She wants to see my torment on display
To harvest in morbid grief games
Pretend she’s just the same
Yearning to reap from the suffering leaks of my soul
Observe my lamentations trapped in a fishbowl
To don a cape, be in control
Prodding my wounds, infecting
Imitation empath storing stories
Catalogued, indexed, held hostage
Latching of grief vampires
Sucking ephemeral life’s marrow
Chipping stones off my bones
An archaeologist scraping the shovel
No delicate brushing of bristles
Desecrating my pain
Self-appointed steward on my cradles grave.
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.”