Jets

Silver streaked motion sears across the sky,
those soaring, flaming raptures filled with pride,
like gods of thunder, all powerful, up high,
they through the firmament like unreal visions glide.

The pilots feel their strength in every throbbing vein,
having within their hands the choice of life and death,
holding their flying messengers of fate well in their reign, while far removed, below, they havoc
and destruction spread.

The little mushroom clouds look pretty from the sky,
mission accomplished, crews return with spirits high,
if they could only see up close the agony, the plight,
they would in shame just hang their heads and cry.

Alfred Charasz
Copyright 2005 Alfred Charasz