The tundra beckons thou,
and the tundra beckons thee.
But only some can hear the icy howl
of the offer to be free.
Only some can see the blinding white,
the chance to go and play.
Those that understand don't fight,
the urgent need to go away.
Empty ice out there for all to take,
or maybe only me.
Out there alone for heaven's sake,
with hell thrown in for free.
The creative tundra of the mind,
is the sweetest trap of all.
Golden heights out there to find,
and failure's searing fall.
No logic, sense, or reasons right,
to be found out in the snow.
Creation's risky endless flight,
is all there is to know.
To travel out there on the track,
you're cutting on your own.
No one to help and no way back,
when reaping what's been sown.
You know you've gone out far enough,
when too far to return.
You know it's real when it gets so tough
your mind begins to burn.
You only know that you're alive,
out past the edge of what's been done.
Mindless life of endless drive
Only wanting what's not yet won.
Only death can bring the final stop,
the only hope there is of rest.
Heartbeats spent and then you drop.
Still not done despite your best.
Some hold tight the ignorance bliss.
It seems of that there is no doubt.
Opposing side of the acid hiss
of the howling tundra route.
The tundra beckons thou
and the tundra beckons thee.
But only some can hear the icy howl
of the offer to be free.
Brett A. Jones, 2014
