Sorrow for the men I befriend.
while in the sky I say my goodbyes.
Who knows my fate of 21 days, for the Baron wants me head.
I think not of my worries, but the mid-winter flurries that fled 3 nights ago.
I may be alone and on my own, but i’m not dead.
Combat occurs, as the plane starts to stir surely this isn’t the end.
But I am dead.
By: Natasha Richards follow her on http://allpoetry.com/Tashiebooboo