In shadows, where the whispers lie,
She meets the stillness, not with sigh.
A soul in flight, through realms unseen,
In death, she finds the serene.

The world, a stage of fleeting light,
Her pen inscribes the endless night.
With every verse, she softly treads,
Among the living, among the dead.

Death, a companion close and kind,
In silence, truths are intertwined.
Her heart, a vessel of despair,
Yet hope and peace are woven there.

To rest, to dream, beneath the stars,
In death, she finds no binding bars.
Dickinson, in her quiet grace,
Embraces death, in its gentle embrace.