In silent chambers where shadows lie,
Dickinson’s whispers of death still sigh.
Her words, a dance of life and demise,
Echo through time, beneath dark skies.

The reaper’s touch, a gentle caress,
In her verse, finds a soft address.
Between the lines of her quiet breath,
She paints the serene face of death.

A soul unbound, in twilight’s grace,
She meets the end with a tender embrace.
Her pen, a vessel for the final flight,
Into the gentle night, so bright.

Dickinson, in her quiet repose,
Through death, her eternal prose.
She finds the beauty in the end,
And through her words, we transcend.