fdelano Posted July 10, 2013 Share Posted July 10, 2013 At Last On Easter morn we lift off, shakily, in a bucket of bolts held together, or not, with skill and spit. Another day in Paradise. Just low scud over the Nam and cool at angels two-five. Last sortie, carrying thoughts of back in the world. Screeching strobes stir the steaming jungle with seeking scythes and forever seconds. Constricted sphincters, all. Upside down and pull of stick to fly the crescent, only to confront the same indifferent homing hunter. Break the other way, please, pilot. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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