Free Fall Poem by soren Barrett

A voice through static, speech erratic her echo 'Iced, Mayday'
A plane carrying nine souls without controls, on a rainy gray day
Twenty thousand feet a minute, over the limit, a meteor from the sky
In a wounded bird nary a word, then the pilot's 'We're gong to die'
A held breath, imminent death, plunging toward the ground
In a ball of flame disolved each name, only small pieces found
From an expert's advice they thought it was ice, formed on tail and wing
Death diagnosed in the voice of a ghost, falling from where angels sing