Night Mission III
Time it self it would seem
would stand still. (Apart from the consistant
turn of the Cronometer,
that ever-pervasive count.)
That consistant and timeless cottonwool rolling
of sound never going away.
The heat turned on
trying to counter the cold of death and night
thinking of the job at hand
trying not to look at the bomb
protruding beneath the wing,
which intermittently glows green, or red.
Or plunging through the void in a cloak of darkness,
waiting for the target to lock.
Fear as tracers arc over the canopy again.
Hoping to live, wanting to die
waiting to explode suddenly over the dark
or for the initial approach beakon, and the glideslope
waiting until the sun sheds its tears
on a pink new morn'