Antarctica XIII

hidden in the silence of the desert,
the silence that never sleeps;
of another kind.
Broken clockwork kind,
poison for who's counting the seconds.

We
are never safe
from barren places, are we?

Safe from where the sterile plains reach far into an illusive horizonline,
and our thougts become whitewashed and white;
sunbleached,
frostbitten.


We may have reached the place with no directions;
where hot is cold and me is you.
We may have been, without notice,
beckoning the gallows.

We blossom inwards.


hidden in the silence of the desert,
the ice fields.