~501- It was not death, for I stood up~

Emily Dickenson

It was not death, for I stood up,
And all the dead, lie down -
It was not Night, for all the bells
Put out their Tongues, for noon

It was not Frost, for on my Flesh
I felt Siroccos – crawl –
No Fire – for just my Marble feet
Could keep a Chancel, cool –

And yet, it tasted, like them all,
The Figures I have seen
Set orderly, for Burial,
Reminded me, of mine –

As if my life were shaven,
And fitted to a frame,
And could not breather without a key,
And ‘twas like Midnight, some –

When everything that ticked – has stopped –
And Space stares all around –
Or Grisly frosts – first Autumn morns,
Repeal the Beating Ground –

But most, like Chaos – Stopless – cool –
Without a Chance, or Spar –
Or even a Report of Land –
To justify – Despair.