Ode To Emily Dickinson Poem by Seshat Nibada

I am myself the term between
the drift, the dawn, an eternity
of mind dissolving in new minds
so dips this human Eternity

To introduce the soul since
death leaves us homesick
for birth and former selves
I am myself the hour of need

that fails within a chance of fate
how terrible a thing to perish
without a just or loving observer
I am myself the hour ahead

what I shall become a faith-in-emergency
a happy letter on a page I did not read
but wrote somehow in my mortal sleep
I am myself the verb divine

of holy experience, hurried syntax
that cannot edit who he was or where he felt
or whose eyes wished upon a page
tell them it wasn’t a practiced writer

but a common guessed sentence of toil
a scribe without a home, but purgatory
which can only learn to become more silent.