A penguin shuffled by, much like the zombies
That the pair were discussing.
With only a few bullets left in the rifle,
Their decisions were now of life and death.
Their twinned thoughts were solitary.
It was now or never.

Their resolve, till now, had never
Wavered in the face of the zombies.
They believed the Antarctic solitude,
Expounded in so many former discussions,
Would free them of reanimated death.
The only freedom left was in the rifle.

They had just three shots before they had to turn the rifle,
And do that which they had never
Believed. Self sufficing death.
On the wane horizon, five zombies,
Mumbling ineptly in carnivorous discussions,
Devoured the silence of solitude.

They remained unmoved in solidarity,
But both contemplating respite in the eye of the rifle.
Their blood in their mouths, the taste disgusting,
Wishing that they had never
Known anything of the zombies,
And had felt, naturally, long before, the hand of death.

And now, fated to the mouths of wandering death,
Picked out against the snow by eyes solid,
Eerily unblinking; the urgent stare of the zombies.
They passed between themselves the rifle,
Both believing that they would never
Have the power to do what they had discussed.

Sudden ataraxia. Their elation was thinly disguised,
As they knew they could do little now in the face of death.
They knew that they would never,
In supposed victory, escape the pain of solitude.
The only hope, one way or the other, lay in the rifle.
They finish it now, or wait for the zombies.

Their discussion over, they embraced death.
Never again would they bare the solitude.
They forgot about the zombies. Salvation was in the rifle.