January 25th 2019

Because she said it all and she said it best:

It was not Death, for I stood up, (355)

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 –
Nor 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 breathe 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.

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